


Revenant

by Domenika Marzione (domarzione)



Series: Freezer Burn [7]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Assassination Attempt(s), Assassins & Hitmen, Clint is stealthily awesome, Drama, PTSD, Politics, Red Room, Revenge, Team as Family, World politics, actions have consequences
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2017-12-30 23:06:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 138,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1024456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domarzione/pseuds/Domenika%20Marzione
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Avenger, assassin, friend, spy, lover, survivor, hand of vengeance, instrument of grace, defector, and a woman of fierce loyalty. Natasha Romanova is a perfect warrior, an imperfect woman, and she needs every one of her many facets in the wake of a tragedy that rocks the Avengers' world off its foundations.</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Text from Clint Barton** : _One's a good news day, two's a coinkidink, and three's a phone call from NF waiting to happen. That's why the text. Keeping the line clear. :)_

Natasha was in Montreal finishing up some perfectly above-board work (that had just happened to require a neutral third country meeting place and travel under a false passport), so she hadn't seen the news, nor had she checked her email since this morning. Fury hadn't called her, so whatever it was Clint was hinting at hadn't yet occurred, if it would at all. Sometimes, it was a little hard to tell when he was being serious over texts and emails; this could be work related or it could be that he had found Count Chocula at the grocery again.

She could spend time checking her inboxes or surfing to the news websites, instead, she just texted back a question mark because if it really was cereal, she'd be irritated at the effort otherwise expended. And then she turned her attention to the waitress who offered to refill her coffee cup and asked if she'd like a slice of sugar pie and smiled approvingly when she replied in the affirmative.

Clint sent her three links to the London newspapers. The first reported that the Latverian cultural attaché to the Court of St. James (like most cultural attachés, he was really a spy) had died of an apparent heart attack while enjoying a post-theater dinner with his wife at a trendy restaurant. The second said that a merger between two City investment firms was on hold after the principal of one, Oleg Semyonov, had been rendered comatose after a fall in his mansion's bathroom -- wet marble, so slippery; he was not expected to survive. Semyonov was (soon to be had been) Putin's main money-launderer in Europe. The third was an obituary of Sir Robert Atglen, a former permanent undersecretary at the Foreign Ministry turned Kronas Industries executive, of natural causes. Atglen had been a KGB spy handled by Aleksander Lukin during the Cold War and had been rewarded for his services. It was possible that it had been natural causes, but, as Clint had pointed out, the context was... curious.

"Oh, mili moi, what have you done?" she murmured, smiling sweetly up at the waitress who brought her cake.

Fury did not call her that day, nor the next, when she was back in New York. But on the third day, Natasha woke up to news that there had been massive explosions at both the Port of Los Angeles and the Port of Rotterdam, no claims of responsibility yet, and while she did not know what had been damaged at each site, she'd have bet on Kronas Industries' insurance company having gotten at least one phone call. So when Neal Tapper, the Avengers' SHIELD liaison, issued a summons to the headquarters on 44th Street, she was unsurprised. Even less so to find Steve there already waiting, talking to Hill.

"Can you please try to look a little less giddy at the news of thirteen dead and hundreds of millions of dollars in damages and lost revenue?" Fury asked with a scowl as he stalked into the conference room, an aide trailing behind. "This is going to be a clusterfuck and that's with only the Port Authorities and Homeland Security tying up my phone line."

Natasha cocked an eyebrow; she hadn't been doing anything.

"Not you, Romanova," Fury said, looking pointedly at Steve. "Captain Happy over there."

Steve blushed. "I'm not _pleased_ about the loss of life. That's a tragedy and I'm--"

"Save it," Fury cut him off, sitting down and waiting for the aide to deposit papers and tablet in front of him. "Far as we can tell, every single corpse comes with an Interpol file, so 'tragedy' is overstating the case. But that doesn't mean this isn't going to become one down the line. Whoever is behind this -- and I say that like I don't know _exactly_ who is behind this -- has been busy and the busier he gets, the more dots there are to connect. Right now, it's just probably just Lukin and the Latverians, but eventually the Russians are going to clue in, too, because your boy? Is not being subtle. I get the need for revenge. I do. But we need to stop him before he starts something we can't contain."

Hill began the quick briefing then, throwing images up on to the plasma screen because it turned out that London had not been James's first stop on his quest to pay back those who'd used and abused him when he'd been the Winter Soldier. All of the research SHIELD had done back when they'd been looking to stop Latveria from using Lukin's connections to import HYDRA technology and everything they'd researched to try to bring James Buchanan Barnes home, all of that had let them see exactly what he'd been up to in the six months since they'd lost him in Doomdstadt. Since they'd thought they'd watched him die rather than live with the guilt of what the Winter Soldier had done.

The proof of life, however, came with quite the body count.

Fury wanted Natasha, Steve, and Clint (when Clint got back from wherever he was) to start looking for him and, if they could, anticipate his next moves. A task made more complicated by the fact that the Winter Soldier had been better at what he did than both she and Clint were -- and what they were, Steve had never been -- and the fact that they didn't know what he looked like even if they could figure out where to look. They could assume that he still looked like James Barnes, but he could have changed his appearance or his use of the Tesseract could have changed it for him. Steve was adamant that that last would not be the case.

"He's not living in someone else's body," Steve insisted, since that was a possibility that had to be brought up. "He'd never do that to anyone else, not after what had been done to him."

The picture of Johann Schmidt wearing the face of Matthias Kuersteiner was up on the plasma screen.

"Probably not," Hill agreed, an edge of kindness to her voice that Steve almost sneered at. He hated being catered to like that and Hill knew better. "But he could simply look like someone else now. He'd said he couldn't look at himself in the mirror anymore and then he used the magic wishing cube. He could be a four-foot-three Mexican dude, he could be Lady Gaga, he could have simply dyed his hair or shaved it off. All are equally likely possibilities. We've been running facial rec from every CCTV in London for the three days surrounding his kill spree and that may not get us a single hit even if he looks straight into a camera and waves."

There was more, but the marching orders had been issued. Natasha waited for Steve afterward and suggested they go out for lunch. It was raining when they got down to the lobby and so he offered his elbow and they walked west on 44th under the protection of his umbrella. It was an old-fashioned gesture made instinctively by a man not nearly out of time as he used to be, although if she'd said anything he'd have told her primly that good manners were never out of date. 

"I can't be _happy_ that he's doing so much damage, that he's _killing people_ ," Steve said as they sat under an awning outside of a small Italian bistro on 46th. It was just warm enough for a spring day to be comfortable outside and the noise of the rain hitting the awning and then it pouring down off the edge gave them privacy. "But it's not like he's mowing down schoolchildren. Even Fury admitted he's doing SHIELD's job for us. He's going to do what we wish we could. What I probably would do."

"Kill Lukin and Doom?" Natasha asked mildly, tearing off a piece of the still-warm focaccia. "Would you really?" 

Steve looked at her thoughtfully. "If I'd been through what he had, are you so sure I wouldn't?" 

Natasha hadn't grown up with the iconography of Captain America the way the others had, hadn't seen the newsreels and the movies or read the books or pretended to be Cap and the Commandos in the schoolyard at recess. She hadn't fixed the idea of the spit-shined, fair-haired, noble boy in her mind through a lifetime of passive and active exposure, so when she'd met Captain America for real, she'd formed her opinions based on the evidence in front of her. Which told her that Steve Rogers was a soldier of unparalleled talent and a man of uncommonly deep decency and goodness and grace, but also a man with darkness in him, darkness he fought with the same strength he'd fought Nazis and now fought aliens and whatever else crossed the Avengers' path. So, no, she was not sure. And neither was Steve, which was what made him who he was. 

"We have to find him," she said instead of answering the question aloud. "We won't be the only ones looking." 

After Doomstadt, Steve had insisted that James had survived, that he hadn't used the Tesseract to suicide, although at the time she'd wondered if he was speaking out of hope or belief. Clint hadn't been so optimistic, but out of deference to Steve, he'd kept those doubts to himself. Natasha had gone back and forth, unsure of the man and even less sure of the alien technology that he'd wielded, and the time that had passed since then had not resolved that indecision. That had only come with the text from Clint, although it had brought with it a new set of concerns in exchange.

"No," Steve agreed, but then gave her a lopsided grin. "But I'm glad we have to."

Natasha left for London three days later, the first stop on a five-city tour of contacts, old acquaintances, and KGB drops and caches that James might look to make use of if he were in need of money or weapons. He had disappeared with only what he'd been wearing at the time, which had included a pair of large caliber handguns and at least two combat knives, but not enough cash to fund the sort of havoc he'd been wreaking for the last six weeks, if Hill's suspicions were correct. (They probably were; Hill was a far better analyst than she let on.) There could also be Latverian resources he might be tapping, but nobody really knew what kind of boltholes the Latverian security services had built for themselves and if anyone was going to realize that they might be at risk from a rogue agent, it would be Doom. So while some of the places and people she planned to investigate dated back to the Soviet era, to James they might be more reliable and more easily accessed.

They might be, but James was going nowhere near them. Whatever resources he had, he was drawing them from a completely different line of credit. Natasha returned to New York two weeks later with nothing to show but a healthy expense report. She'd talked to armorers and arms dealers, forgers, and the finest bomb-maker east of the Rhine and none of them had had dealings with the Winter Soldier recently, nor had they heard of anyone who had. Ernst, the bomb-maker, had been a little remorseful and a tiny bit jealous that he hadn't been the one to build the devices, but even after she gave him a copy of the forensic reports that told him exactly what the bombs had been made of, he couldn't give her a name. "It's someone in South America, I would guess," he'd said. "They do remote detonation better than the Arabs and I'd have heard of anyone in Europe or Asia working with that much untagged Semtex."

In the meanwhile, there'd been two more suspicious deaths of Russian billionaires with ties to both the old KGB and the new corruption and then the completely straightforward assassination of the head of a Latverian mining company in South Africa, a cousin and boyhood friend of Baron von Doom, although presumably there'd been some other factor because James had thus far avoided softer targets with much more direct connections to the Winter Soldier.

"Well, we know he's found a sniper rifle," Clint drawled as they sat in a corner of the dive bar near his apartment. The place was genuinely unfashionable and not artfully so, refused to serve anything but well drinks and the same five beers it had had on tap since the 1980s, and quietly produced a burger and fries (before 10pm only) that made a mockery of the Shake Shack a few blocks east. "I don't know where he's getting all this shit from, though. Between the two of us, we can cover anyone worth knowing outside of Asia and I am not quite ready to accept that he's buying wholesale from the Chinese or the North Koreans."

"He _was_ in Vietnam in the Seventies. But I think they have people on the region already," Natasha said, then smiled gratefully at the busboy who delivered a full bottle of ketchup and their napkin-wrapped silverware and took away their empty pint glasses.

"I'm about ready to start asking Hill to ask the Army if he could be hitting up anything we might have left behind after V-E Day," Clint groused into the head of his new Harp.

Natasha gave him an incredulous look and he shrugged. "I am all out of practical and plausible suggestions and if I thought Steve would do anything but chew my head off about it, I would ask him if the Commandos had had any stashes that Barnes might remember."

Steve was off in Texas doing something at an Army base, but she wasn't sure he would have wanted to come to bitch and moan about the hunt for James even if he'd been in town. His frustration with their lack of progress was only partially because of its lack of success; the rest was his own lack of suitability to the task. Steve didn't have the connections an experienced field agent had, the friends in low places that made this work easier to survive, because he'd never been a clandestine operator. He'd done his share of covert work during his war, but this, what she and Clint and James did, was something else entirely. Making it worse was that, in this case, he was an insufficient analyst because while he could read quickly and make logical connections at a speed the rest of them could not match, he was missing too much context. The Winter Soldier's history was written in and of the Cold War, which Steve had read about but which he could not understand it in the bone-deep way that someone who'd lived through it would, let alone someone who helped shape it as the Winter Soldier had. He was helpless to find the man who he'd once been closer to than any other because he could no longer understand anything about that man's life. Of course it was eating him up inside.

It was bothering her a little, too, although she hid it better. Not perfectly, both Steve and Clint had come to her and, in their own ways, offered support if she needed it because hunting down an old love, a first love, was not simple. She'd never given either of them the full story of her and James, although she suspected both had picked up far more than she had said. And she'd spoken the truth when she'd admitted that she wasn't sure how she'd feel when (if) they found him. She'd lost him the first time when the Red Room had taken him from her and she had been burned every single time she'd risked believing she might've gotten a little bit of him back. She wasn't sure she even wanted him back. She wasn't the same person she'd been when they'd been together any more than he was, even if her changes had been organic and by her own choice. She had no idea who James Barnes was now and she didn't know how she felt about him, even if he remembered her.

"I think Steve's already been through the Commandos files with the SHIELD historians," she said rather than give any of those thoughts voice. "There was an argument about whether a particular mission existed because there were no records of it."

Clint laughed and drank at the same moment and so he had to put down his beer to cough. "I think I would have paid money to see that. Captain Photographic Memory versus a couple of eggheads whose grandparents weren't even born when it happened."

Natasha made a noise of agreement, shifting her own beer glass to the side as their burgers arrived.

The next two weeks brought more of the same: little progress, more frustration, and the hum of the intelligence world realizing that something large was afoot even if nobody had figured out what. A puzzle, a riddle nobody had solved, and it was all the more appealing for it. The clues were there: the Latverians and the Russians were both clearly the targets of this campaign and if the Russians still hadn't figured out the who, Natasha was quite sure the Latverians had a very good idea. Which was why they were publicly keeping their mouths shut, suggesting plausible but clearly wrong theories for why their diplomats and citizens were being picked off, while privately sending scathing missives to Fury accusing him of a revenge program for the events in Doomstadt. The Latverians went back and forth on whether the Winter Soldier was involved; the Latverian troops had seen James disappear into thin air as clearly as the Avengers had. The Russians, on the other hand, were keeping quiet because they _didn't_ know what was going on. They couldn't confess the real roles of some of the victims, couldn't sound like fools by even admitting that some of the dead _were_ victims -- autopsies had been done, no foul play indicated -- and while they were happy to accuse SHIELD in particular and the American government in general of messing around, some of the Russian assets James had eliminated had been unknown by SHIELD to even _be_ assets until after the fact. "We can't kill spies we don't know are spies," Fury had told an irate SVR caller. "Look inside your own house before you come storming over to mine."

And so the chase remained on as April turned into May and May turned into real spring and not the series of false alarms that meant packing for two seasons for even the shortest trip. There were other matters to deal with beyond the hunt for the Winter Soldier and Natasha spent most of the first half of May in Denmark and Sweden chasing down a former AIM biomedical engineer who was peddling an Extremis-based formula to the highest bidder. 

But Memorial Day weekend, which was supposed to have been a vacation and a barbecue on Tony's penthouse deck, turned into a work trip far from the sailors and marines swanning through Manhattan for Fleet Week. She was in Berlin, making a two-day stopover to meet with an old contact and follow up on a potential new one, before heading off to Tallinn because there'd been a rumor of the Winter Soldier visiting one of the armorers there. She was pretty sure it was BS, but at this stage, she couldn't reasonably refuse to go. And so here she was, at least getting some real work done en route. Although not at the moment, since she'd stopped for a late lunch at a sun-drenched café. And so had half of Berlin, it seemed; the weather had apparently been rainy and cold all week and the city had turned out to enjoy the respite.

The atmosphere on the street changed subtly from blissful weekend afternoon to something less full of sunshine, a murmur that Natasha noticed in the tiny part of her professional mind that functioned even when she sat in a café in sunglasses and a pretty dress sipping affogato. The murmur was in a minor key, but she judged unthreatening and proceeded to ignore it. But when it grew louder, when it started to drown out the other themes, she stopped tuning it out and started to listen because it had the underlying urgency of _something has happened_ and not in the good way. 

"Ist er tot?" 

"Wer könnte das überleben?"

Natasha no sooner realized "assassination" than she heard a name and went scrambling for her purse to pull out her phone. The video was already on the web, on every news site and all over Youtube. 

It was a quiet, respectful scene at Arlington National Cemetery, the laying of the wreath at the Tomb of the Unknowns by the President of the United States. The wreath to be presented stood on an easel guarded by a soldier and the President waited for the signal to pick it up. A group of military personnel dressed in their finest, Captain America in his costume front and to the right, stood nearby. It was all solemn and respectful until Steve suddenly pitched forward and fell to the ground, at which point all hell broke loose. 

There was more to the video, other videos that promised close-ups and better angles, but she'd seen enough. She stood up, surprised at her unsteadiness, dropped a handful of euros on the table, gathered her things and left. She answered her phone on the first ring, already knowing who it was. 

"What do you want me to do?"


	2. Chapter 2

The instructions from Fury had been simple: "Use what the Red Room gave you and find me the fucker who did this."

Steve was alive. Barely. The damage was catastrophic, as only a large caliber bullet to the head could be. But they were supposed to be grateful because without his costume's helmet, he would have died instantly. As it was, he was still in surgery to put his skull back together and would be for hours more. He'd crashed on the table twice so far, Natasha had been told, the second resuscitation being a near thing. And even if he made it through the surgery, they had no idea what would be left of Steve Rogers the man, let alone Captain America the icon. They could be frantically saving his life now only to have to choose to end it as an act of mercy down the line.

The Red Room had given her many things: ruthlessness, determination, a skill set that had taken her far too long to realize could be used to protect as well as destroy. It had not given her hope.

She walked back to her hotel feeling only anger, pointedly ignoring the headlines scrolling across television screens and LED displays proclaiming the Death of Captain America. Once in her room, she made a phone call to an old contact, who in exchange for the name and address of the Tallinn SVR _rezident_ wanted details of the assassination. "It's not one yet," she answered.

By the time she got to Estonia the following morning, Steve was out of surgery and the theories for why it had been necessary in the first place were thick on the ground. Aliens, al-Qaeda, HYDRA, homegrown terrorists, foreign governments, even Tony had a supposedly valid reason for wanting to kill Captain America and the various news sources gave voice to all of them. In a world where aliens really did show up to kill them, what might have once been restricted to supermarket tabloids was now fodder for the self-proclaimed public intellectuals. Natasha didn't think it was terrorists or aliens (or Tony), but she was willing to put at least two foreign governments on the suspect list and Lukin's Kronas empire was almost big enough to count as a third. There had been no claim of responsibility, which to her mind dismissed all non-state actors, since for them the theater of destruction was how they made their coin. Clint, when she'd spoken to him, agreed. However, he reported that at least some departments within SHIELD were allowing for one significant non-state actor to remain on the table until proven otherwise.

"How could they think James Barnes would do such a thing?" Natasha asked him, not bothering to hide her incredulity. "He ran away from Steve in _shame_ , not in anger."

"Hey, no shooting the messenger," Clint exhorted, his voice low and raw from exhaustion. He'd been in Tunis and had flown back all night to get to DC to be part of the forensics team, a sniper to figure out a sniper. "You know why they can't rule him out, as ridiculous as it sounds. You and I saw him, but they didn't. And none of us have seen him since he got teleported or whatever by the Tesseract. He may or may not look like Bucky Barnes anymore, but we don't know what the hell is going on in his head beyond wanting to hurt the people who made him hurt. If he's sufficiently fucked in the head, there's a chance Steve looks just as guilty as Lukin."

Natasha's reply to that had been a derisive snort and Clint had not tried to press the point, but they both knew that it wasn't nearly as outlandish as she was making it seem. They really had no idea what the Tesseract had done to James. The fact that they'd been unable to track him at all in the last few months did not factor in for either side as to his state of mind.

Tallinn in late May was a beautiful city, but Natasha was in no mood to enjoy it. She stopped at a venerable-looking bakery for a selection of little cakes and then took a taxi to the address she'd gotten from Ilya. Charming her way into the home of Mikhail Komorov, the SVR's man in Tallinn, was simple enough -- she was a demurely dressed Russian woman holding a box of pastries and wearing a hopeful expression that her cousin Misha was able to get out of work early as he'd said he might... The nanny, an unattractive girl from Omsk judging by her accent, never had a chance. The housekeeper was a slightly tougher challenge, but not hard. Not when Natasha was on her game, fueled by rage and determined to succeed. She was telling Komorov's wife and three little children all about her life in St. Petersburg when Komorov arrived. To his credit, he recovered well, apologizing to his wife and the housekeeper for forgetting to mention the visit. And then he asked to speak to her in his study, since they had so much to catch up on.

Komorov did not pretend to wonder why she was there and promptly launched into the official Russian party line about how they had nothing to do with the shooting and this was in no way, shape, or form payback for either the SHIELD assault on Minyar or the mysterious deaths that had been occurring more recently. "What did Nick Fury think would happen?" he asked imperiously. "You pissed off Putin, Lukin, and Doom at the same time. Poke enough bears with enough sticks and you will eventually get mauled. But this wasn't us."

"You have no idea whether it was 'us' or not," Natasha spat back from the leather chair she'd been graciously escorted to before the door had closed. "You are the resident in fucking Tallinn. You wouldn't be in Estonia if you were in a position to know anything about anything."

Komorov asked her what she was in his home for if she hadn't come for information.

"I'm here to give you a message to pass on to the people who _do_ know," she told him, standing up. "You tell them that if they are responsible for the bullet in Steve Rogers's brain, then it will end badly for them and their ashes will be salted."

"Nobody's afraid of you anymore," Komorov offered bravely, or not quite so bravely because he took a half-step back when she looked to take one forward. "You're an _Avenger_ now. A costumed hero. You don't scare them anymore."

Natasha smiled sweetly. "As I said, you know nothing from nothing, which is why you are in Tallinn. They are plenty scared of me still and they will be wise enough to listen to this: the next warning won't be me coming with a message from Nick Fury. The next warning will be a bullet and it will be coming from the gun of the Winter Soldier."

Komorov stared at her. "The Winter Soldier? He's--"

"Alive, well, and pissed off," she promised, retrieving her purse from the floor. "And God help you all if he decides that you tried to assassinate Captain America."

Komorov didn't know who the Winter Soldier really was, but the people he passed the message on to would give it to those who would and from there, it was a short hop to the top with the news that the Winter Soldier was out of his tank. She had just fired the first shot in the war between Putin and Lukin. The fallout, she hoped, would reveal either James's whereabouts or Steve's shooter or, possibly, both. Along with plenty else, not all of it useful or productive, but Fury had given her freedom from the leash to get things done and she knew of no faster way to get into the piggy bank of secrets than to bring a hammer. It made things less safe for James, perhaps, but that was no longer her priority. She didn't think he was the shooter, wouldn't think he was until she saw indisputable proof, but the time for worrying about him was passing quickly. 

She made her apologies to Mrs Komorova and the children, expressing sadness that she could not stay for dinner and hoped that they would enjoy the rest of the treats she had brought and that she would see them again soon.

She checked with the armorer she had been sent to visit and, of course, he hadn't seen the Winter Soldier in thirty-five years because Estonia was what it was and James could now get his weapons in Germany, like everyone else. An evening flight got her to Vienna, where she figured she'd stay for a day or two before the aftereffects of what she'd told Komorov could be seen. But she had to change her plans when she was summoned back to New York.

By the time she turned her phone back on after landing at Newark, there was a message from one of her contacts telling her that a mutual former colleague had just been grabbed off the street in London by other mutual former colleagues still employed by Moscow and did she happen to know why?

She was given a wide berth upon her arrival at the Helicarrier, which annoyed her but was also a relief. The agent escorting her off the flight deck gave her directions to the medical bay Steve was being kept in (the Helicarrier had three) without prompting and Natasha had no choice but to go directly there, not with more than an hour to kill before the scheduled meeting and no excuse not to save her own cowardice. The Black Widow did not show fear. 

She'd seen Steve vulnerable before: just after he'd been defrosted, drugged and chained in Minyar, down on his knees before the Winter Soldier in Doomstadt, a hundred times when he'd fallen asleep in her presence. But this, this was something else entirely, something far more delicate and heartbreaking. His head was shaved and bandaged and trapped in a kind of halo to keep his skull fractures from being jarred. He had facial hair for the first time she could recall. He was hooked up to a ventilator that whooshed out breath for him and he was connected to so many tubes and electrodes. He had never looked so young or so old.

Peggy Carter was at his side, looking older and frailer, too, everywhere except her eyes, which were as piercing as ever and Natasha wanted to look away so that Peggy couldn't see how much she wanted to flee. She didn't want to see Steve like this, helpless and her being helpless to do anything to make things better, to keep him alive. Instead, she took a deep breath and held her ground. Until the door slid open behind her and she heard a gasp as Pepper and Tony came in and then she did flee. Straight down to the range where she emptied clip after clip until her hands rang and her shoulders ached and Clint came for her, looking worn. 

"It's time," he said. 

The meeting to decide Steve's future took place in Fury's office. Fury, Peggy, Pepper and Tony, Clint, and herself were the only attendees. "This isn't a SHIELD matter, not entirely," Fury explained at the start. "This is a personal matter. This is about Steve Rogers the man, not Captain America."

That being said, Fury ran the show, but he was clearly not speaking for himself. He explained that Peggy and Pepper were Steve's medical proxies, which Natasha already knew about because she remembered Steve's unhappiness with being told that he could not have a then-96-year-old woman as a proxy and would need to find someone else, if only as a backup. Any and all decisions regarding Steve's care would be theirs to make in accordance with Steve's stated wishes, but that they both felt that any discussion of Steve's future would benefit from being held with those he was closest to. 

"I have suggested to Ms. Carter and Ms. Potts that it's time to let Captain America die, at least in public," he said and Natasha saw that Tony and Clint were as surprised as she was. Tony started to protest, but Fury held up a hand. "The reasons for this are many. First and foremost, we can't protect him."

"What the hell does that mean?" Clint spat out. 

"How many catastrophic security breaches do we have in SHIELD facilities per year?" Fury asked pointedly and Clint blanched, even though Natasha knew it hadn't been a barb aimed at him. "No matter how secret a facility we choose -- SHIELD or Stark Industries or some freshly-built igloo in Alaska -- no matter how well we fortify it, we can't guarantee nobody will come knocking or that we'll be able to hold them off if they do. The only chance we have to keep Rogers safe is to keep him hidden. And the only way to do that is to make sure nobody is looking for him in the first place. _Especially_ because we don't know who already _is_ looking for him."

Fury looked at her and she did not look away. 

Fury's -- or, Natasha realized, most probably Peggy's -- second reason was that it was still very likely that Steve's death would not have to be faked. He'd needed to be revived three times already so far, the last only yesterday, and his accelerated healing factor could not guarantee any kind of recovery from such a traumatic injury. The doctors couldn't say if he would ever wake up or, if he did, what kind of life he would have. "They said that we don't understand how the brain works well enough to make even an educated guess." The serum could eventually completely heal his brain and he could still wind up a vegetable, profoundly brain damaged in a way that left permanent physical or cognitive diminishment, or there might be personality changes or memory loss. Or all of the above. 

"We are where we were when he was first found in the ice," Fury explained. "Even if he wakes up again, his days as Captain America may be over for a thousand different reasons."

There was a pause then, silence around the table. Pepper reached over and took Peggy's hand in her own. 

"And if he wakes up next week and is ready to go by his birthday, what do we do?" Tony asked in his belligerent-but-not-really tone, the one that went with him knowing you were right and hating it. "Because I remember the plans for the original shebang and it made the Kennedy procession look like a pauper's funeral."

Natasha didn't think she'd ever seen the look on Fury's face when he told Tony that if that would happen, he would never be happier than to do those apologetic press conferences. 

"If this is what needs to be done," she began, "then where would Steve actually be? It would have to be somewhere accessible but remote and nowhere anyone would think to look for him because even if we somehow did an open coffin funeral, someone _will_ look for him."

"His grave, more likely," Tony said. "The super-soldier serum just sitting there in Arlington?"

Fury had answers to both questions. The grave would be guarded and, should it be violated, it would be easy enough to explain it away for exactly those reasons. "It was what we had planned to do when we'd initially found him," Fury explained.

"The empty grave while his actual corpse was dissected in SHIELD labs," Tony said bitterly. "Let's not pretend this would be about the dignity of Steve's remains."

Pepper looked like she was about to say something to him, but he brushed her off. "No, Pep. You are the guardian -- back-up guardian, whatever -- of Steve's body while he's alive. I respect that and I'm glad he chose you. You're going to be much saner about it than any of us would. But someone has to be cynical and suspicious and make sure that when the worst happens, be it tomorrow or fifty years from now, that he doesn't get cut up like a Spanish ham for all the medical researchers in the world to play with before he's even room temperature. He deserves better than for people to forget that he was a real person and not just a scientific marvel."

Any other time, the rest of them would be talking over each other to point out that Tony had been the last person in the room to figure that out. But he'd more than made up for it since, which was why they did not.

"He agreed to donate his body to science as part of the conditions for undergoing the procedure," Peggy said into the growing silence.

"He would have agreed to do a striptease in front of Eleanor Roosevelt to undergo the procedure," Tony retorted. "Don't think I don't know the stories of what else you guys tried to get him to sign away before Rebirth kicked off."

Peggy looked back at him without rebuke or denial. "You know this is what he would want."

"It is," Tony agreed easily. "And I have no problem with the idea of donating your body to medical research. I have my own plans for it. But there's a way to do it properly and there's a way to wind up like the Oscar Mayer display at the supermarket. And I don't trust SHIELD to do the right thing by him."

"Then trust me," Peggy told him. "If you think I'm going to let the one-eyed bastard to my left pull a fast one, you haven't been paying attention."

It was, unsurprisingly, the right thing to say. Serious, but not. Making her point clear and defusing the tension at once. Peggy Carter had had to learn a far more complicated kind of grace than Natasha ever had.

After a meaningful pause, the discussion about where Steve would be kept while he recuperated -- and that was the word they used, despite it not being anything close to guaranteed -- continued.

There was a serious thought to taking Steve outside the US, apparently. The UK, France, and Israel were three nations with trusted security services who would accept the assignment not as a favor to Fury, but as an act of respect for Steve. Natasha didn't like the idea and Clint and Tony audibly liked it even less, but Peggy and Pepper were calm and Natasha wondered if this was already a fait accomplit. 

"Out of the past ten years that Steve was alive," Peggy pointed out tartly, "much of that time was not spent in the United States. He would not mind living in these places. And as for the rest of your objections, you will not be dropping by for tea every week regardless of where he is. The commute for you is immaterial."

They might not be able to visit him at all if he were overseas. There wasn't an airport anywhere in the world that didn't have eyeballs on it, mostly belonging to foreign security services. 

"What about my place in Nebraska?" Clint asked. "It's intentionally in the middle of nowhere and it's not a transatlantic flight from New York. I get not wanting to put him in one of our places, but we can hide a hardened civilian location a lot better domestically and it would be easier on the logistics -- forget us visiting, you're going to need regular shipments of equipment, drugs, rotations of doctors and guards and then food for them. That's a lot to hide."

Natasha looked over at him. "I thought you sold that place years ago."

He'd loved that place, had hoped to retire there, and he'd kept it long after it became obvious that New York was going to become their base of operations and even irregular trips out there would not be likely. 

"Market was crap," Clint replied with a shrug she took to mean that there was more to the story. "Ended up renting it out."

"I have a few dozen places," Tony offered. "I can get more."

"No, Tony," Pepper told him gently. "There isn't any way that a Stark property, even one you never lived in, stays under the radar."

The discussion ended without any decision announced, although Natasha rather thought that Steve would end up staying in the US, or maybe Canada. She was ready to go, restless and unsettled and full of dark humors because this was all new to her and she didn't like it. She'd held so many lives in her her hand over the course of her career, lives she could snuff out at whim or on command. This was the first time she'd held even a tiny part of a life she desperately wanted to save. She'd never felt so useless.

"Natasha, could you walk back to the infirmary with me, please?" Peggy asked. "I'm supposed to always have an escort -- sadly, Fury's more worried about me breaking my hip than making off with his toys. And I'm in no mood for one of the baby-faced agents who will coddle me as if I've lost my mettle instead of my mobility."

Natasha smiled. "Oh, no, you have lost nothing of that," she agreed because Peggy was not asking for Natasha because she was the closest free arm. 

They made their way slowly to the elevator; Peggy relied heavily on her cane, looping her free arm around Natasha's. They got back to Steve's bedside in due course and Natasha waited as Peggy fussed with Steve's coverlet, the only noise the rasp-rasp of the respirator and the beeps of the monitors. She didn't run away, which might have been what Peggy was testing her on, but that turned out not to be the case. 

"I need you to find Bucky Barnes," Peggy said, looking up from where she held Steve's limp, young hand between her own gnarled, strong ones. 

Natasha laughed humorlessly. "I've been trying for a few months. We all have."

Peggy nodded. "This will change things and Steve being pronounced dead will change things even more."

And Natasha's telling the Russians that James was alive was going to affect things, too, but she did not say so aloud.

"You know they're half-convinced he shot Steve," Natasha warned instead. "Especially after the forensics came back."

The bullet had come from more than two thousand meters away. There weren't many who could make that shot even under ideal conditions and this had been while hiding from the aerial portion of the presidential security detail. 

Peggy scoffed. "He's no more likely to have done so than Mister Barton. Whatever the Tesseract might have done to him, it would not make him into someone who could hate Steve Rogers enough to kill him." 

Which Natasha believed as well, although with varying degrees of fervor. She'd seen James stripped of everything he'd loved once before, too, and she'd been wounded by what they'd turned him into as a result. She wanted to believe that he'd never willingly do that to himself, that he'd never put himself in a position to let that happen again, but she couldn't bet anything on it. Not again. 

"I think he's going to make contact," Peggy said, settling back in her seat. "Or at least be amenable to you making contact. Whether that's before or after he does something we're all going to regret is another matter. Whatever else he's become, he's still James Barnes and the pea in the pod next to Steve Rogers."

There was a touch of fondness in the last bit. It's not that Natasha had forgotten that Peggy knew James once upon a time, but it still startled her a little to hear someone else speak of him as a _man_ and not as whatever the Winter Soldier had become. 

"Steve was breathtakingly reckless after he thought he got Bucky killed," Peggy went on. "Even for his levels of cavalier disregard for both his own safety and the given-for-a-reason mission parameters, which history has done a find job of downplaying. The other Commandos weren't all that keen on reining him in, but they kept him from giving in fully to his guilt. Bucky has no such support and a far deeper wellspring of anger to work from."

If James were not the assassin, then it was very likely that he would see the shooting as a measure of revenge against himself. And the guilt over that would be overwhelming, which in turn could make him escalate. Natasha said as much to Peggy. 

"Or it could make him stop and reassess and come to you."

Natasha had never had reason to ask Steve if he had told Peggy about her and James. It made sense that he would -- this little bit of good human history in his friend's life when everything else he'd learned was so horrifying -- but it still embarrassed her. Irritated her a little, too, but she shoved that aside. It hadn't been a secret between her and Steve, not a secret that could never be told even if she hadn't wanted to elaborate on it, and he wouldn't have shared it with Peggy to gossip. It was Steve. He'd probably done it out of pleasure because that's how he'd taken the backhanded revelation of hers and James's history. He'd been happy that his old life and his new life had one more connection, but he'd possibly been more happy for James, which in turn had made Natasha a little embarrassed. And he'd been amused because, as he'd put it, Natasha was the kind of gal Bucky Barnes had needed but usually hadn't been patient enough to seek out. 

"And if he does? If I find him?" Natasha asked, shaking herself free of the memories. 

Peggy raised her chin and looked at Natasha firmly. "Then you tell him to come home and look after his brother once more." 


	3. Chapter 3

Steve Rogers 'died' ten days after the meeting aboard the Helicarrier. The time in between had been spent deciding where Steve would live, how he would get there, who would take care of him once he arrived, and how he could be moved so that he would survive the journey. Transporting a patient who still needed as much critical care as Steve did would be complicated even were it happening openly, but doing it under the cloak of deceit made it that much more difficult.

The list of people who knew Steve had not actually died had been pared down to the smallest number they -- Fury, Hill, Tapper, Natasha, and Clint -- thought they could get away with without jeopardizing his safety or care. There was a medical team and the security detail that would be following Steve to his new home, there were the Avengers plus Peggy and Pepper, and then Fury and Hill and Tapper. And that was it. The rest of SHIELD, including the thousands stationed aboard the Helicarrier, were among the ignorant. And that included Coulson, which Natasha understood would be devastating should he ever find out the truth, but he was on a field team now and vulnerable because of that and, ultimately, he didn't really need to know. "Turnabout's fair play," Clint had said acidly when it had come up, but she knew he felt it to be a little bit of a betrayal of their relationship nonetheless.

Steve was transported off of the Helicarrier in a coffin designed to contain his respirator and keep his head stabilized and protected as well as keep his essential monitoring systems in place. There was an honor guard that included all of the Avengers, Thor and Bruce included, and the coffin was flown directly to DC, where an identical coffin was prepped and would continue Captain America's final journey (as the news media put it in their captions) while Steve himself was shifted to an unmarked ambulance and then to a different airport, where a private plane flew him and his support team to Michigan, where they would stay at a house purchased for the purpose while the final preparations were made at Steve's new home, an isolated property in Goshen County, Wyoming, less than an hour's drive from Clint's newly-vacated Nebraska homestead. Ostensibly the low-tech retreat for a Silicon Valley startup millionaire (played by a member of the security detail), the money that was pouring in to renovations was not for granite countertops and heated floors. Natasha and Clint had gone over the blueprints and done a site visit with the security detail commander and they were comfortable that once it was finished, it would be about as safe as could be hoped for. And then they'd driven back to Clint's place outside Scottsbluff and gotten very drunk because it had maybe hit them both during the walkaround what they were doing and why and for who.

The funeral for Captain America was magnificent, a solemn and stately pageant on a bright, sunny late spring day that couldn't have been more beautiful. It came after a week of blanket media coverage, retrospectives, marathons of the old (and not so old) dramatizations of Steve Rogers's life and activities, talking head roundtables, and a lying in state that had a five-hour wait time at the start of the day and only got longer. It was a national day of mourning for the United States and, in tribute, several nations around the world, especially those where Captain America had fought during World War II, marked the passing of a hero from a bygone age with their own ceremonies. There wasn't an American embassy or consulate anywhere in the world that did not have at least one bouquet or candle or card outside its gates.

In Washington, there was the funeral proper at the National Cathedral with eulogies given by the President and then Tony. Tony's words were exquisitely moving and heartfelt and _honest_. For all that he seemed to let everything hang out in public, Tony actually did a very good job of keeping private what he wished to hide. But he hid nothing here. And considering that he was in on the ruse and knew that there was a chance that Steve could wake up and hear this... Natasha took this as Tony admitting that he didn't think Steve _would_.

The only official representatives of the Avengers were Tony and Thor, the latter clothed regally in Asgardian formal mourning dress, but Natasha, Clint, and Bruce were present and visible if one knew where to look because even if they weren't publicly known, the various national and international intelligence agencies knew and it would have been suspicious if they'd been absent entirely. Dressed tastefully in black with a small fascinator, Natasha reminded herself it was an act, just like a thousand other acts she'd performed over the years. Except that this time, she was lying to people she otherwise liked and trusted, inasmuch as she could trust anyone. People who saw her as Natasha Romanova, one of "us" and not someone with a false name or a fake cover or an agenda that differed from theirs. Matt Corrales was there with his wife, Coulson, even Miranda Tung, plus a hundred other familiar faces that even if she didn't choose to share anything with on a daily basis, she still felt dirty for pretending to share their very real grief. 

But that was before Tony spoke and shattered the thin barrier between the real Natasha and the one on display for others to see by mourning so very genuinely for a friend he didn't think he'd ever see again. She was far back enough that Tony would never know that he'd made her cry. 

She did not follow the procession to Arlington, where Steve's fake coffin was buried next to James Barnes's empty grave. Instead, she was on the first leg of a trip that would take her to Bulgaria, where she could rattle the chains among the underworld in Sofia and sill be close enough to hear the whispers out of the Motherland next door. 

She had already known that her message to Moscow had gotten through loud and clear, but the waters were still muddy for most everyone else because Putin's response had initially been confused and conflated with James's reign of terror. Which in turn still did not have a known author; conspiracy theories abounded and Natasha earned some future favors among her network of contacts by alternately fanning and putting out those flames of suspicion. Outside of of the principals, nobody really understood what the hell was going on beyond the fact that there were now rivers of (mostly) Russian blood in the gutters of most European cities. 

Putin was furious, that much everyone could see. It was it impossible not to notice that the FSB and SVR were both acting with uncharacteristic haste and force, burning resources like they hadn't since the Iron Curtain had been melted down to ingots. They were looking for the Winter Soldier, a secret that had not been kept for long. It was news that shook up the entire world of intelligence, initially disbelieved and then accepted with growing dread by all parties. In the West, it was like saying that the Loch Ness Monster was real -- they'd never had proof of his actual existence beyond the espionage version of an urban legend. In the East, it was an announcement that the maddest dog on the block had slipped its leash.

The Winter Soldier's American origins, let alone his ties to Captain America, were a secret not widely known even inside Moscow's elite, where he'd generally been assumed to be a local boy the Monster Factory had turned into a legend. As far as the rest of the world knew, the Winter Soldier was a purely Soviet invention, a fiction with no historical ties to either Schmidt's HYDRA or the US and the only ones who'd known differently all had their reasons to keep quiet. Certainly now, when the Russians were still a suspect in the murder of Steve Rogers and displaying a level of paranoia, however justified by the body count, that hadn't been seen in decades. 

"It's like the Seventies all over again," Natasha heard more than once from old spies who'd lived through it the first time. 

After a week in Bulgaria and Albania, Natasha accepted an invite to stay with an old Red Room colleague in Split, Croatia. Sonia was a mentor of sorts, one of the few female Red Room operatives not primarily intended for honey-pot missions, plus one of the highest ranking women in the KGB Second Directorate after her field days were done. There'd been no competition between them -- the age and experience levels too different to make it worthwhile -- and instead they had become allies. While officially out of the game and largely off the radar, Sonia still knew everything about everything, even from the balcony of her villa that overlooked the sea. It was a hobby for her and not a profession, which was why she remained off of the watchlists of her former masters and their friends and enemies. 

They sat and ate and drank and sunbathed on that seaside balcony and swapped gossip like any two women might, but instead of news from the supermarket tabloids, their morsels could bring down governments. 

"It's terribly Old Testament," Sonia said of Putin and Lukin. "The sagas of brothers turned rivals, the favored son, the stolen blessings... it's better to watch from afar, however. In the Bible, Cain slew Abel and was done with it. This will have much greater collateral damage."

The news that morning had carried an item about Kronas losing a contract at the Port of Tangier, presumably at the influence of the Russians. 

But it was not current affairs that had Sonia most curious, instead a much more personal affair. Sonia knew of Natasha's romance with James and she knew what had been done to him because of it. She had assumed that Natasha was SHIELD's hunting dog in the chase to find the Winter Soldier first and had not known that, instead, Natasha was the one to tell the Russians that he was still alive. Sonia was not entirely kidding when she asked why Natasha couldn't have told her first. 

"If this were a cat-and-mouse game, I would have," Natasha said. "But this was for revenge and for blood and I did not have time to enjoy it."

In part to make it up to Sonia and in part because she knew Sonia would not misuse the information and might, in fact, use it very wisely, she explained the entire saga of James Barnes, from his appearance at Minyar to his disappearance in Doomstadt, leaving out the details of the Tesseract but including her own discovery of James's true past at the hands of a history book from the SHIELD library. 

Sonia was intrigued by the idea that the Winter Soldier was James Barnes; it was hard to be horrified by anything after being trained by the Red Room. Like most, she hadn't been privy to the Winter Soldier's true history, although she did learn during her Second Directorate days that he had not been in Leningrad and had in fact been captured as a HYDRA trooper and turned from that. She had interacted with the Winter Soldier both before and after Natasha's affair with him, worked with him once ("very difficult; he didn't want anyone along and after he failed to ditch us, he led the target's security team right to us and we spent the night running for our lives while he completed his mission"), and had had practically no contact with him once she'd moved over to the Second Directorate. She'd recognized his value as someone who could pass as an American, but hadn't ever dreamed that he'd come by the talent honestly. 

"This explains a few things that didn't make sense at the time," Sonia said, sipping at her wine. "Including why they went so far overboard in wiping the Winter Soldier's memories after the two of you were caught. He'd been out of stasis for a while by that point and they were worried that his conditioning was breaking down, that was the official line. It was probably even true. But it's what he might have remembered that must have worried them enough to nuke his memories like that. His possibly corrupting you, their star pupil, with some remembered American glory is much different than than him getting mouthy or waking you up shouting 'Hail HYDRA.'"

Natasha carried enough guilt and anger for what had happened to James in the wake of their affair. She really didn't want to be told that she was even more to blame than she'd been imagining. 

Sensing that, Sonia moved on to Lukin and what all of this might mean.

"He never wanted to be in permanent exile among gypsies and Slavs," Sonia said, pouring Natasha more wine. "I knew that but I didn't know why he was anyway. But the Winter Soldier? That makes everything different. By giving the Winter Soldier to Lukin, Karpov told him he was the favored son and Sasha would take that as a pronouncement of destiny far truer than Yeltsin being arm-twisted into naming Volodya as his successor. Enough to keep the flame alive even when he didn't have enough power to effect the result he wanted. He's a patient man and he chose to wait, setting up his pieces and shoring up his positions in the safety of Doom's protection while all along planning on taking Putin down."

But Natasha's revelation had taken away some of Lukin's wiggle room and exposed him to a great many dangers he'd now have to face without his most lethal weapon to use in defense. And not just from Putin and his allies. Lukin lost the pretense of being a retired spy with no desire to greater glory and war between the two was inevitable now, Sonia thought. 

"Although that does not mean imminent," she cautioned. 

Especially with James still at liberty and hellbent for leather; Putin and Lukin were very possibly more scared of him than of each other. "All the more so if he's really James Barnes and if he thinks one of them killed Captain America."

"There are no 'ifs' on that front," Natasha pointed out, picking a grape out of the bowl. 

Sonia didn't know which one of them did, but it was obviously one of them, counting Doom as part of Lukin's team.

"Lukin makes more sense," Sonia admitted, shaking her head. "But assassinating Captain America is such a ridiculous raising of the stakes that making more sense is not necessarily even a factor. There has to be something else going on here. If we've learned anything over the past twenty years, it is that the Americans are a hibernating bear that you can poke a few times with a little stick, but if you poke it enough, it will wake up and destroy the forest just to swat you back."

Natasha stayed three days at Sonia's villa on the sea, a vacation she perhaps didn't realize she'd needed until she'd had it. Sonia perhaps had realized earlier, since she turned the visit from an intel summit into a proper respite, never asking Natasha more than she was willing to give and being generous with what she offered in return. It was only on the third day that she asked Natasha about Steve and then only to ask what kind of a man he really was. 

"The very best kind." 

From Croatia it was up to Prague and then, two days later, to Frankfurt on the first leg of the trip back to New York. She asked for a few hours' layover there, intending to meet with an armorer not to ask about James, but instead to see about a birthday present for Clint, who had been making eyes at an item in the newest H&K catalog, something SHIELD would happily buy for him -- if he'd wanted them to know he owned it. She knew his likes and dislikes, knew how he'd want it modified and that Ferenc was the one to do it, and knew that Clint would never actually get around to buying it for himself because he viewed changing out personal weapons as something akin to infidelity and he was nothing if not loyal. But he'd accept it happily as a gift, because he was strange like that, and so a gift it would be. 

She did not tell him this when she saw him the next day, after her layover in Frankfurt became a stop-transit order because Kronas's large, ultramodern world headquarters in Doomstadt had just been blown up. There had been no fatalities -- it had been in the middle of the night and the fire alarm had been pulled so the night guards and cleaners could leave -- but Natasha didn't think anyone was fooled by what had happened and why. Not even when both Lukin and the Latverian Ministry of the Interior issued separate statements about a gas leak and no signs of terrorism. 

"I think we found the Winter Soldier," Clint said dryly as they sat in a bar drinking beer, watching the news, and eating currywurst. (Clint couldn't travel through Germany without eating currywurst, which Natasha didn't mind nearly as much as she insisted she did, but he always picked the strangest places to do it.) He'd been on his way to Amman when he'd been stopped in Amsterdam and, because he hated Amsterdam, he'd made his way down to Frankfurt so that they could twiddle their thumbs together while SHIELD decided if they were going to do something reckless like sneak into Latveria again to look for James. 

While they waited for SHIELD to make up its mind, they had little else to do (after Tapper told the both of them to leave him alone and stop asking) but to wander around the city and talk. Clint had the latest information on Steve, who had been moved from Michigan to his new home in Wyoming. "He's been more or less upgraded to 'we don't have to keep the crash cart in the room anymore,'" Clint reported. "And he's getting a roommate."

Peggy Carter was packing up her life in Philadelphia to join Steve in Wyoming, Clint said. Selling the house, quitting her volunteer work, telling her friends she was going to an assisted living facility near some relatives. When it had been suggested by Fury that such a permanent solution would not necessarily be required, that even if Steve never regained all that he'd lost, he wouldn't be out in Wyoming forever, Peggy had apparently simply reminded everyone that she was ninety-seven and that the nursing staff at Steve's home would be looking after her as well and this was merely saving someone else a bit of work a little bit down the line. "My hope is to live long enough to see Steve restored to the fullness of his health," she'd said. "It's not necessarily my expectation."

"And she didn't mean Steve dying on her," Clint clarified, in case it hadn't been obvious. "I can't even imagine her dying. She's like Shimon Peres -- they get a little more shriveled every year, but they're basically eternal." 

They also talked about the future of the Avengers -- something the media has been asking about out loud and SHIELD a little more quietly -- and how they both assumed that the Initiative was all but dead save for another alien invasion and how surprised they were at how much they'd miss it. Neither of them had wanted to be a part of it in the first place. 

Two days, no more bombings or assassinations, and five texts to Tapper later (they coin-flipped to see which one would do it), they were told to continue on to their original destinations. But while Clint was Jordan-bound once more, Natasha was not on a sleeper seat on a flight back to New York. While wandering around Frankfurt with Clint, she'd gotten an email from an old contact in Romania that there was a warehouse full of HYDRA weapons in an industrial park in Cluj and would she happen to know anyone who might like them before they wound up in, say, the Ukrainians' or Russians' hands. 

Natasha contacted Coulson, since she didn't know who had taken over the hunt for HYDRA weapons now that he was back in the field and he gave her the name. She didn't recognize it, so she told Tapper to do the talking and he got back to her and asked if she wouldn't mind doing the look-see herself. Which was what she had expected, so off to Romania she went once the hold-in-place order had been lifted. 

The warehouse was protected by technology instead of people, which was a warning sign but not an obstacle to people like Natasha. Once in, her first thought was that there were possibly more weapons than Iancu had thought there were. Natasha took photos of the rifles and the two baby spider mechas, all neatly stored and, thankfully, not looking like they were going to be imminently shipped out, and recommended imminent retrieval when she sent the photos in. 

It was the middle of the night when she finished, not enough time to get any sleep before she had to check out and get to the airport, but too much time to stay awake with nothing to do. She found a food stand open near one of the warehouses that had been turned into a dance club and got something to eat, then made her way back to her hotel on the far side of town, a rundown place that didn't look too closely at the registry and didn't notice guests slipping in and out in the dark. Which was why she'd set up her own tamper warning on the door to her room and why she was relatively surprised to see it undisturbed. 

The man sitting on her bed with a gun in his hand when she opened the door made her reconsider, but only for a moment. The Winter Soldier had gotten past harder obstacles than flimsy hotel doors. 


	4. Chapter 4

Natasha froze in the open doorway, training telling her that she had enough time, if James meant to kill her, to back out, pull the door closed behind her, and run like hell because it would take him just those few seconds to follow and he couldn't fire through the wall and expect to hit her. But one look at his face assured her that he hadn't come for that, so she closed the door behind her and locked it. 

She wasn't sure if she was relieved or angry or both to see him here. Months ago, before everything had gone so terribly wrong, she'd considered what might happen and what she'd do if James did make contact. Her plan had been to keep it professional but not spook him into running off again, to be the SHIELD version of the Black Widow, not the Red Room's. In practice, however, it wasn't going to be so easy. Now that she was in the same room, she knew that pretending that their history didn't matter was clearly going to be as impossible as it had been in Doomstadt. But she was also determined not to let herself get hurt again and she was angry, so angry with him, because there was a good chance Steve was hovering on the edge of death because of him. He should have known that there would be consequences to his actions and that the people he was going up against knew that he had exactly one point of vulnerability: Steve Rogers. 

But then she saw how utterly broken he was, the way his eyes and expression hid nothing, and understood that he had figured that out as well, but too late in the game to matter. 

"What do you want?" she asked in English, since it had once been their language of choice and neither of them were really Russian anymore. "And holster that piece if you aren't going to use it on me."

James looked at the .45 in his hand like he'd forgotten it was there, shook his head, and complied. 

"I want a lot of things I can't have," he said sourly, running his now-free hand through fashionably short hair. "But I'll make do with revenge."

The Red Room had taught them both that the answer to almost everything unpleasant was violence, so she understood the rationale, but... But James Barnes was not Red Room. Or not _just_ Red Room. Maybe. This man was a stranger to her, despite the familiar face and voice and movement. He wasn't her James, he wasn't Steve's Bucky, he wasn't the brutal Winter Soldier. Or maybe he was all of them. She didn't know how much he remembered of his life as the Winter Soldier, although he clearly remembered enough to want to punish those who were responsible for it. He remembered her, but whether he remembered everything about them or just the tawdry bits and pieces he'd thrown at her in Doomstadt, she didn't know. Wasn't sure she wanted to ask.

"Revenge is what got us here," she pointed out instead, not as sharply as she could have because she'd learned that lesson too late, too. She crossed the room to the small table and put down her backpack and took off the hooded sweatshirt she'd been wearing. She did not take off the Glock sitting snugly in its holster at the small of her back. 

"I know," he agreed. "But I don't have the kind of faith to offer penance or look for forgiveness."

She wondered if he was thinking about God or man or if it mattered. 

"So why are you here?" she asked, turning to face him.  

James looked her straight in the eye. "Because you're the best chance at figuring out who killed Steve and I want to be the one to pull the trigger when you do."

She nodded, accepting the answer as both truth and evasion. "And what are you offering in exchange?" 

He hadn't come here expecting a freebie; he had to know that there was a long list of people who'd want to put a bullet in Steve's killer and that his skill set, while unique in its proficiency, wasn't going to be required for the job.

The tiny nod he gave her confirmed it. "What do you want?" 

He'd know she had the authority to offer terms. 

"I want you to come in from the cold," she answered. 

Before Steve had been shot, before James had even started his revenge spree, before anyone but Steve had seriously thought James could be alive, there had been discussions about what to do if they'd found him. They'd made a list of the possibilities, ranked by likelihood and difficulty and desirability, and that order had stayed in place once they knew that James had survived in some fashion. Their first option -- and Steve's only option -- had been to bring him in. Fury hadn't objected, hadn't thrown up obstacles or warnings or dire scenarios of trojan horses and double agents the way he had when Natasha had made her initial overtures to defect. Had embraced it completely, actually. And to her own surprise, she'd been deeply angered by his acquiescence. By his _eagerness_. Intellectually, she'd known that hers and James's situations were not all that similar, that there was far more compelling evidence that James was no longer in their enemies' service than there had been for her after she'd met Clint in Tel Aviv and asked him if the other side was really as green as it looked. Natasha had been a defector, an enemy agent looking to betray her country and her masters; James was not, was in fact the opposite. He wasn't going to be turned; he was going to be _repatriated_. She knew that, but it still galled her a little because she'd wanted to join Fury's side and he'd openly questioned her motives; James wanted nothing to do with his native land and yet open arms were waiting for him regardless. She'd had to prove herself over and over again -- and then over again once more when she'd been accused of betraying SHIELD (and that James had been the one to set her up didn't not matter, even if it hadn't been _him_ ). James could show up and he'd be long-lost Sergeant James Barnes, war hero and American icon, and beyond suspicion. 

The look on his face was very clearly not one of a man eager to enjoy the fruits of seventy-year-old glory. "I--"

"I'm not asking you to join the Avengers," she cut him off, sharply. Cut off her own jealousies and hurt feelings as well. This wasn't about her. "I'm asking you to come _home_." 

James gave her a short, ugly laugh. "There's no home left for me to go to. The last bit of it died three weeks ago."

"You have more there than you think," she told him, which earned her a scoffing glance. "I believe Peggy Carter wants a word, too."

His expression softened in something that might have been regret or fondness for a moment, then shuttered with a sharp grimace of pain. "She's... how is she doing?"

"She's heartbroken," Natasha answered honestly. "The first time was enough."

James nodded once. When he made no other move and continued to say nothing, she turned back to her pack, unloading it on to the table and starting to sort the items by whether they would travel to her next destination and how. James could take his moment to think; he'd either agree or he'd walk out of the room and if he did the latter, she wouldn't stop him. This wasn't about Steve per se; this was a test of James and his self-control. Of how badly he wanted what he'd come to ask for. Either he could curb his impulses to lash out in anger or he couldn't and if he couldn't, then she didn't want him anywhere near Steve or even the knowledge of his survival. She would work around him and not with him if she had to. Peggy would be disappointed, but not with her. 

"I don't have my NCO sword to offer my parole with," James said and she turned back to face him, he was holding out his .45, grip toward her.

She gestured with her chin for him to put it away. "You have a sword?" she asked, keeping the relief out of her voice and replacing it with curiosity. 

"I do -- I did," he said, holstering the gun. He gave her a crooked smile that was part wry recollection and mostly disbelief at what he'd just done. "Hell if I know what Steve did with it."

"Maybe someone knows," she said, picking up her phone. There were travel arrangements to be made. She called Fury's office -- she had Fury's direct number, but Hsiang was going to be the one making arrangements. "I need a ride for two from Cluj, Romania to the Helicarrier. I'm bringing an old friend."

At her prompting, James handed her a passport -- Michael Avery, naturalized Dutch citizen born in Simcoe, Ontario -- and she read off the data to Hsiang and then confirmed which cover she was currently traveling under. A few minutes later, Hsiang told her that two tickets on TAROM's flight to Heathrow later this morning would be waiting.

James declined her half-hearted offer of the room's other bed to crash for the few hours before they'd have to go to the airport. She didn't want to share a room with him, but she didn't want him getting cold feet, either. 

"I have things to do," he said and she cocked a disbelieving eyebrow at him. He was undoubtedly the reason she was in Romania in the first place -- he'd probably burned one of Lukin's HYDRA acquisitions for Doom to draw her in -- so the odds of him multitasking weren't stratospheric, but they were unlikely. But he gave her an arching eyebrow right back. "I also need to get my stuff. I didn't come here planning on this."

She let him go because she couldn't force him to stay and they both probably needed a little time apart to absorb what they'd already done. They were going to have to travel to the airport separately anyway. 

"If you're not on that flight..." she warned and he nodded, even though they both knew it was an idle threat. She hadn't been able to find him for months when she'd been trying. 

Once he left, she barricaded the door and went to take a shower. She knew she wasn't going to be able to sleep, but she lay down in the dark anyway. Eventually, she gave up even that and pulled out her phone again to call Clint. He was in Tunis, she found out when he answered groggily because it was still the middle of the night there, too. 

"I'm bringing the Winter Soldier in," she said. 

"I think we can officially give up on you calling him that," he replied teasingly. "But good. I'm glad."

And not just for Steve, he didn't say, but she heard it anyway. 

"I'm not sure what I'm supposed to be calling him," she admitted. "And I don't think he knows, either."

Clint asked how he seemed, since asking her how she was would be too direct and too obvious and he knew she'd lie. He knew the true answer, too, because she was calling him in the middle of the night. 

"A mess," she answered. 

"Then he'll fit right in," he chuckled. "Try to get some sleep on the plane, Natochka. You are going to have a very long day."

She didn't see James when she arrived at TACOM's desk at the airport, nor in the waiting area for the flight, which didn't worry her until it did. But on the plane he passed her seat on his way to his own, not even looking at her, and she relaxed. She slept almost the entire flight, which was still not enough to keep her from feeling sluggish and a little surly when it came to clearing customs at Heathrow. She didn't see James after they'd disembarked, but she wasn't worried anymore -- once he'd gotten on the plane in Cluj, he had committed to the entire trip. She didn't know how he'd gotten from Heathrow to Finsbury Park, but she'd taken a taxi and saw him as it pulled up in front of the address she'd given the driver. They walked together in silence for the two blocks it took to get them to the unmarked SHIELD car idling at the curb with a plainclothes agent behind the wheel, then let the silence continue on the drive to Lakenheath because Agent Dillies was not cleared for anything they had to say to each other. 

The trip to the Helicarrier from RAF Lakenheath was unremarkable as far as they went, but James didn't bother to hide his curiosity. He was wearing casual civvies, jeans and a long-sleeve oxford with a pressure glove on his left hand and he was carrying a dark green backpack; he looked like any other SHIELD consultant on their first trip to the Helicarrier and the quinjet's crew didn't give him any more of a second glance than the Lakenheath staff had.

There was more curiosity from the flight deck personnel on the Helicarrier, but James had his sunglasses back on and so it was entirely because he was being accompanied by the Black Widow and must therefore be someone of interest. If they only knew.

Hsiang directed them in to Fury's office without so much as a second glance, although she undoubtedly knew exactly who James was.  

 "Welcome home, Sergeant Barnes," Fury greeted him as they approached his desk. He'd stood up when they entered, but didn't offer a hand to shake. "I'm sorry it took so long."

"Yeah, well," James said, tone casual but his posture was very much still fight or flight. It was probably not noticeable to anyone else, maybe not even Fury, but Natasha saw it as clearly as a telegraphed punch. "There wasn't really ever going to be a point when it wasn't too late, was there?"

"No," Fury agreed ruefully. "There wasn't."

The door opened behind them.

"Bardere's a dry ho--" Hill froze because James had turned and was reaching for whatever weapons he'd secreted on his person before she'd gotten two steps into the room. She put her hands up in a passive gesture, letting him look her over so that he could see that she was friend and not foe. When he dropped his own hands, she continued into the room. "I'm guessing Somalia wasn't what you wanted to see me about, sir," she told Fury wryly and a little pointedly. 

James was still so tightly wound even after he'd registered Hill as not a threat. Natasha hoped that Fury didn't turn this into a show before getting down to business. James couldn't easily run from here, but he could shut down and if he did, getting him to listen again would be a much harder battle. 

"Why am I here?" he asked Natasha, tension in his voice. "Why did you bring me here?"

He was asking her why the Helicarrier, but Fury misinterpreted, possibly intentionally. 

"Because there is a bigger game afoot than your death-by-a-thousand-cuts payback," Fury answered before she could. "Because we both want the same things. Because it's time to take revenge the _right_ way."

James started to retort, then stopped himself.

"Finding out who shot Captain America won't take that long," Fury went on. "Coming up with a proper response, that's going to need work. We aren't going to invade Latveria or Russia--"

"Again," Hill piped up, earning a glare from Fury. Natasha bit her lip to keep from smiling. 

"We are going to need something targeted and painful, precise enough to avoid World War Three and damaging enough to be decisive because we can't have this escalating any further," Fury continued, looking straight at James. "I intend to have the last word in this _conversation_ and you are going to be my punctuation."

James seemed almost pleased at the realization that he'd be just a weapon again, the tension bleeding out of him with what almost looked like relief, and Natasha hated that look, in no small part because she recognized it. After she'd come to SHIELD, being put to work, even ugly work, had been a relief because it kept her mind occupied, kept her too busy to think about what she'd done by defecting, the magnitude of it. It had slowed down her recovery, she'd recognized in hindsight, letting her hide behind the Black Widow. It had kept her from figuring out who _Natasha_ was and how to live with her, how to make her better. Clint had realized it before she had and had called her on it a few times, but they hadn't had the kind of rapport back then where he could do more than that and she hadn't been interested in listening.

James had her to tell him now, she supposed, if he'd let her and if she could keep their past from dragging them both down. But who he really needed was Steve, who'd have been perfect for this because Steve, above all others, had the capacity to accept people's flaws and move past them, to see the bad and acknowledge it and file it away as unimportant right now. Who'd have done everything, _anything_ , to show James what he had to gain by giving up the crutch of the Winter Soldier. 

"We should go to Wyoming," she said and everyone looked at her. 

"So soon?" Hill asked, not sounding like she was ready to say yes or no, just waiting for a good reason to pick one.

Fury, however, understood that she'd already given one. By mentioning Wyoming in the first place, she was saying that she thought James could handle the news. 

"You can't seriously think we're going to stay here for a lengthy debrief, do you?" she asked. 

The choice of the first person plural was not emphasized when she'd spoken it, but she knew they'd all heard it very clearly. It had been for both Fury and Hill's benefit and for James's. She didn't want James shutting down because he thought she'd dragged him back to her masters as a prize to be dropped off and she didn't want them thinking that she was not going to watch his back here. He was her responsibility right now, whether he wanted her protection or not. 

"I think we have to figure out who and where and what first," Fury said calmly, recognizing the challenge, acknowledging it, and setting it aside all at once. "And I think Sergeant Barnes would like to figure out the same."

"Don't call me that," James said sharply. "That's not who I am."

Fury frowned at him. "That's _exactly_ who you are, you just aren't used to it yet."

James glared right back at him, but two eyes weren't enough to win a staring contest against Fury's one and he looked away first. "What's in Wyoming?" 

"Your past, present, and possibly your future," Fury replied, not quite smirking at James's growl at what must have seemed like a uselessly vague answer. But Fury hadn't been answering James, he'd been answering Natasha. 

"Peggy Carter, to start with," Hill, not completely oblivious to the silent conversation, added. 

James nodded, although Natasha could see him wondering why Peggy wasn't in Philadelphia.

"I want to go to DC first," James said. "I want to see the sniper's nest and I want to pay my respects."

Natasha looked to Fury because while they would, she thought, get cooperation out of James even without the truth about Steve, if they didn't tell him right now, the repercussions for him finding out later, even later today, would be immense and would leave them at a point from which there was no recovery or return. 

Fury's nod was so tiny as to be almost imagined. 

"You're welcome to visit the shooter's site," Fury told James. "You may see something our people have missed, although Agent Barton's been through. But you can skip the visit to the Commandos Memorial unless you'd like to visit Morita and Dugan. Steve Rogers's coffin is as empty as yours is." He waited a beat. "And for the same reason."

James's reaction was to take a step back. "What the _fuck_?"

He looked over at Natasha accusingly, eyes blazing. "What the _fuck_ , Natalia?" he repeated. "You couldn't have said something?"

"I needed to know how you'd react first," she told him unapologetically, then switched over to Russian, which Fury understood but Hill did not. "You came to me because you wanted help making the world burn. I wanted to know what you'd do with more gasoline before I handed it over. I want Steve to be safe and I would have lied to you forever to keep him so."

The flare of anger at her died in his eyes, replaced by the anger at himself. He turned away from the three of them, took a deep breath and let it out slowly, then turned back. "He's in Wyoming with Peggy Carter?"

"He's alive," she said with a nod. "But that's as good as the news gets right now."

Fury gave James a short, dispassionate summary of Steve's condition, which James took like a boxer bracing for blows he couldn't duck, then suggested that they go down to DC if James wanted and then to Wyoming to see Steve. 

"We'll speak after you've seen him," Fury told them. "Give both sides a chance to think things through."

Hill told James that they'd taken the liberty of making him a SHIELD consultant so that he could have security clearance to do things like visit the shoot site and see the reports, plus it would give him access to materiel and resources should he choose to act on their behalf at some point in the future. 

"We'll need you to take a picture," she added, like it was a minor afterthought. "We probably could have used your old Army photo, but we didn't know that at the time."

James gave her a dark smile, recognizing this as a transparent ploy to get him out of the office and under supervision while Fury talked to Natasha. "Fine."

He followed Hill out, giving Natasha a look that she would have been able to interpret easily once upon a time, but in this new context wasn't quite sure what it meant. 

When it was just her and Fury, he gestured for her to sit down and she did.

"What's your assessment?" Fury asked. "And how much of it is based on your history together?"

She didn't bother to hide her indignation at his suggestion that her judgment could be so impaired when so much was at stake. 

"I meant what I told him," she replied. "I wanted to see what he'd do between when he found me and here. I'm satisfied that he's in control of himself."

"I want you to keep an eye on him," Fury began and Natasha bridled and he held up a hand to ask her to wait. "He is, to be blunt, completely fucked in the head. He doesn't know who he is, he doesn't like whoever that is, and that makes him reckless."

She couldn't argue with that statement, so she didn't. 

"We owe it to Steve to do what he can't for James Barnes, which is to save him from himself," Fury continued after a pause. "And that may be a bigger job than any of us are capable of. Some people don't want to be saved."

"That wouldn't stop Steve," Natasha pointed out. "That didn't stop him."

"It didn't get him anywhere, either, until he proved just as reckless as Barnes," Fury retorted sourly. "It nearly got him killed, along with you and Barton, and it put an entire Direct Action Team at risk. I would like to think that we have all learned from that particular lesson and won't be repeating it. Which means that when I say that I want you to keep an eye on him, that does not translate into you riding shotgun when he hares off to do something spectacularly stupid."

Natasha smiled despite herself and that made Fury frown deeper.

"Take him to DC, see if he'll be up for a few days of storytelling in Wyoming, after he's seen Steve and Peggy Carter's had her say. We're hoping to have enough intel by then to start working for real."

It was a dismissal and so Natasha nodded and stood up to leave. She gave Fury a beat and a half to add anything else, but when he didn't, she departed. 

In the outer office, Hsiang told her that Hill had said to pick up her 'friend' from the Avengers team room. Natasha raised an eyebrow at that because of all of the places on the Helicarrier to leave him, that was probably the cruelest. 

"It's quiet, it's out of the way, and it's disproportionately comfortable compared to its rate of use," Hsiang pointed out. "And Commander Hill did not think he should be wandering around the Helicarrier."

Which was all true and Natasha shrugged to indicate as much before thanking Hsiang and wishing her a good day.

James was sitting on one of the couches when she opened the door, a locking folder open on the cushion next to him and papers in his hands. He looked up at the sound of the door sliding open and she smiled because he looked bewildered and amused and showed none of the hard anger -- or profound self-loathing -- she had perhaps been expecting. 

"They want to give me back pay," he said, making it clear how ludicrous he found the idea. "I came here to get intel so I could kill as many people as I could get my hands on and they want to give me _back pay_."

The door closed behind her as she crossed to the couch and took the seat on the other side of the folder. "Steve's doing, mostly," she told him and she pretended not to notice as he looked over to the far wall, where Steve's locker sat, before returning his attention to the paper in his hand. "He insisted that you should be given POW status and Fury agreed. They did some fancy math to figure out what you'd have been paid, adjusted it for time and inflation--"

"And promotion," James added wryly, holding up the page he'd been looking at. "As if I'd have ever made it to sergeant major. What the _hell_ was he thinking?"

Natasha's grin was genuine. "He thought it was pretty funny, actually," she assured him, because she remembered the conversation between Steve and Clint when Steve had first broached the idea and then when they'd done the back-of-the-envelope calculations over dinner one night. "He thought you'd find it ridiculous, too. But it's US policy for captive soldiers to be paid and promoted as if they weren't, apparently, and so you were. The calculations were all theoretical until you came in, but you're here, so the Department of Defense is now going to write a very large check."

He looked over at her, sober. "Am I here? What if I take this money and disappear?"

"It's your money, James," she told him gently. "This isn't a bribe to stay or a downpayment on your services. This is _yours_. This is the US Government's way of trying to apologize for sending you to war and you winding up with far more than anyone bargained for. They can't give you your life back, but they can give you enough money to try to build a new one."

"As who?" he asked quietly, a brittle note to his words. "I have a shiny new ID that says I'm James Buchanan Barnes, but I'm not him anymore."

"You could be," she told him. "Not the same one, a different one. You're not the Winter Soldier anymore and you were never really Yasha. But you _were_ really Bucky Barnes -- although don't expect me to you call you that. It sounds like a dog's name."

James laughed, almost unwillingly but genuinely nonetheless. "I don't know that I can take being James in English to anyone but you," he said once he stopped, a look on his face that she'd almost describe as shy if she could ever imagine applying that word to him. "It's what I got called in school and by people who didn't like me."

"I know," she admitted and he looked over and she shrugged slightly, an admission that yes, she knew that from Steve. She paused before asking what has been on her mind for months. "How much do you remember?"

He didn't answer and she wasn't sure whether she should elaborate or let it go entirely or apologize because she no longer had the right to ask. But then he put the papers in his hand down on top of the others in the folder and rubbed at his face. "Everything. From waking up in Schmidt's lab after I fell off the train to Steve using the damned Tesseract on me." He looked over at her and gave her a ghost of a smile that's both hopeful and miserable. "And you're the only good thing in all of it."

She smiled at him, unable to say anything that wouldn't be too much or embarrass herself. She took a deep breath to compose herself instead and stood up. "Come on," she exhorted, holding out a hand. "It's time to go to work."


	5. Chapter 5

They arrived in DC in the evening via quinjet. James spent the flight reading notes on a SHIELD tablet: Steve's medical file (authorized by Peggy, who had been told of James's arrival before he'd even stepped foot aboard the 'Carrier), the various reports attached to Steve's shooting, and then the files on the mission to Doomstadt, which Natasha hadn't realized he was looking at until she saw James lean back with closed eyes and let the tablet rest on his lap and then she could see the scanned images of one of Steve's own AARs and made the connection after catching a few words of it. Steve, who until the end had written his post-mission thoughts out longhand (Tapper usually got a secretary to transcribe them), had written the facts as they were and had been, but he'd also given James a ringing endorsement as someone with a future as a force of good. 

She wondered if Fury had sent him the file intentionally or if James had simply found it of his own accord. 

SHIELD had booked them rooms in the same hotel as the investigation team was staying in and, after checking in with Rasmussen, the lead agent on the team, and setting up a schedule for the following day, they were left to their own devices. 

"Do you want to come have dinner with me or do you want some time to yourself?" Natasha asked James when it was just the two of them again. "It's been a long day."

He chuffed out a humorless laugh at her understatement, then shook his head. "I don't know."

She looked at him carefully and he let her examine him, not dropping his gaze or turning away. He looked fragile, which did not make him any less deadly, and he looked lost. And he looked like he was very close to burying it all under the comforting blank mask of the Winter Soldier, who was never fragile or lost. 

"We can revisit the options after dinner," she told him. "Let's go."

Over a meal at the Oval Room, she carried the conversation with relative ease. When he'd raised an eyebrow at the menu, she'd told him of how she'd come to love food, good food, since leaving the Red Room and its bioengineered meals calculated to provide maximum nutrition with minimal fuss (or taste). When he asked her if this meant that she cooked, she'd laughed and assured him that she absolutely did not. And then she took the calculated risk of telling him that Steve did, that he'd gotten pretty good at it, that cooking had become his hobby and respite away from the job along with his art. 

James did not hide his interest in these details about Steve's life, so she went on to explain Steve's farmer's market adventures, including the time he'd bought half a cow and how the rest of the Avengers kept inviting themselves over for beef dinners. 

"We invited ourselves over for dinner a lot, cow or no cow," she admitted. "We brought food sometimes so he could try new things, but mostly he cooked for us. He said once it was the best way he could think of to pay you back for feeding him."

Steve used to laugh when he'd talk about how James had always gotten jobs in the food industry -- stocking shelves at the supermarket, waiting tables -- so that they'd be able to supplement their meager income with whatever he could scrounge, dented cans and bruised fruit and table scraps from diners who'd never consider a doggie bag. Steve would laugh, but it had been wistful laughter, tinged with sadness and a little bit of amazement at how lucky he'd been to be taken care of like that when he'd had no right to expect that from anyone. 

Here and now, James put down his knife and fork and closed his eyes to keep the tears at bay. 

"He's also befriended a young female agent," Natasha went on, changing gears because she'd wanted to draw him out, not shut him down. "Or maybe she befriended him. I wasn't around when that began. Either way, they send each other photographs of their meals, although it has finally progressed to eating said meals in each other's presence."

James opened his eyes and raised his eyebrows in silent question. 

"It's all very chaste and very sweet," Natasha assured, smiling at James's eyeroll. "And he blushes whenever anyone -- including Peggy -- intimates otherwise. But she's done wonders for his chopsticks skills."

"Which is sadly not a euphemism for anything," James said wryly, although the smile that accompanied his words did not yet quite reach his eyes. Natasha laughed, however. 

"He's still only got eyes for Peggy," she told him and James did not look at all surprised. "Miranda, I suspect, understands that. I don't know her well enough to know if that was a relief or a disappointment."

James smiled again, this time less forced, then he sobered. "He was happy, though, right? He was okay?" 

Natasha smiled. She felt more optimism looking at his concerned and hopeful expression than she had when she'd seen him board the plane in Cluj. Getting James to come in from the cold had only ever been a tiny part of the battle. Getting him to care about something more than revenge, to care about other people and see past his own pain, that was always going to have been the bigger fight. 

"He was happy," she assured him, reaching out to touch his flesh-and-bone hand. "He also wanted nothing more than for you to be able to say the same."

James turned his hand so that her fingers rested on his palm and his curled around her wrist briefly, a ghost of a touch reminiscent of a far different time, before withdrawing completely. He picked up his knife and fork again and she chose to be graceful about his retreat. 

"I'm gonna need a little more work than he did," James said, attention back on his pork chop. 

It wasn't for her to tell him how very untrue that was, nor would it be productive at this moment even if it were. Steve _had_ been happy, but he'd had to work for that happiness, bull past past a devastating grief as he mourned everything he'd lost when he'd come forward in time. None of them had known him well at the beginning and if they'd noticed it, they hadn't put any effort into dealing with it, offering neither succor nor support. Natasha had seen the outward signs, but had never realized the depth of it until much later on, when she did know Steve well and could see the scars of that pain and appreciate the size of the wounds that had caused them. But she'd still been surprised when Tony had confessed by Steve's bedside aboard the Helicarrier that Steve had once half-asked him to build a time machine to send him back to his own era. "I told him I couldn't. I don't know if he believed me, but he never asked me again. I really wish he had."

"He needed a little more work than you think he did," was what she did say.

Despite the occasional uncomfortable moments, she felt dinner was a positive experience, a far better alternative than leaving James to brood in his hotel room, and he seemed to feel the same. They walked back to the hotel in a companionable quietude, her arm looped in his, keeping their conversation limited to observations about their environment and what time they should meet the following morning and where. 

If she felt a bit of the old pull anyway, she was more than happy to chalk it up to good food and wine and the fact that she'd been up for more than thirty-six hours with only a nap to keep her going. 

James walked her back to her room and she kissed him on the cheek goodnight, mostly to get it out of her system and maybe a little to see what he would do. (Answer: look at her thoughtfully.) He didn't continue on to his room, instead turning back toward the elevator and she called after him to make sure he got a little sleep because tomorrow was going to be a very long day. He gave her a vague hand gesture that could have been "yes, I know" or "I don't care," but he never turned to face her, so she didn't know for certain. 

There was a text from Clint on her phone and she answered it, telling him that they were in DC and would be flying out tomorrow and that James knew. Clint could unpack it properly. 

The phone rang for her wake-up call ten minutes after she turned off the light (not really) and there was a gentle knock on her door a half-hour later, by which point she was showered and dressed and packed, if not necessarily alert. 

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked James as he entered bearing coffee and what turned out to be still-warm croissants for her and a bagel for himself. 

"Yes, Mom," he drawled, dropping his backpack on the floor next to the club chair and sitting down. "I went over to the World War II memorial, said hello to a few friends, then came back. It was harder than I thought, but not for the reasons I expected."

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't, so she finished her breakfast and looked around for where she'd kicked off her right shoe the night before. 

It wouldn't be officially summer for another few days, but DC was already swampy and warm. James was still dressed in long sleeves with his pressure glove despite the heat; in someplace quieter that wasn't crawling with spies, he could probably expose the arm without drawing attention, but here there was no such option. Natasha wore a sundress; she was working, but not _working_ and this was no weather for long pants, let alone kevlar-nomex weave. 

The sniper's nest was on the roof of a mixed-use high-rise in Rosslyn, Virginia, at the very far end of the range for a good sniper using a heavy caliber bullet but still within the protective sphere of the presidential security detail. Which in turn was getting plenty of heat for missing the assassin, even if the President hadn't been the target. The hide site had been well-camouflaged and had avoided aerial surveillance; Natasha had seen the video footage and there'd been nothing to spot with the naked eye or even with heat sensors. The assassin had apparently hidden under a heat-shielding blanket that had been designed with that particular roof in mind as far as camouflage. Which meant that the shooting had been long in the planning. 

James lay down in the sniper's spot now, bringing a scope on a tripod to his eye and settling in. She'd seen him like this once before and she'd seen Clint a few times since; there was a way that the best snipers had about them, the way they didn't so much relax themselves as give the impression of almost melting into the ground. It was why she'd never been a good sniper or even much of a distance shooter at all -- she could be still as a statue and patient as a grandmother, but she couldn't do _this_. 

She and Rasmussen watched James for a few moments, but it was frankly rather boring, so they looked around at the vista and Rasmussen ended up taking her over to the other side of the roof, where they'd found evidence that the roof camera had been tampered with even though the video had been gone over frame by frame and they could find no evidence of looping or splicing going back three days before the shooting. 

After about fifteen minutes, James started asking questions, not raising his voice enough to be heard from where they were standing, so they had to go back over to where he was and have him begin again. James's questions were mostly about the weather and wind speed (the day of, the week of, two weeks, a month), about when particular trees in the cemetery had been trimmed and by who and at whose order,  about details that pertained to the sniper's rifle that they still had no specifics on but James (like Clint before him) was assuming had been custom-built because all of the rifles that accepted the kind of bullet that had shot Steve (Bulgarian-made anti-tank round, mass-produced and essentially untraceable) should have left a different kind of residue pattern than what had been found. Most of these questions had been asked by Clint as part of the original investigation and Rasmussen had the answers, but a few had her scribbling down notes and promising to get back to him as soon as possible. 

After James got up and dusted himself off, Rasmussen explained what they were doing about tracing building access and the massive computer power required to do facial recognition on the building's camera footage -- assuming that the other cameras, including the one across the street -- had not been similarly tweaked like the one on the roof. She asked if they had any questions, gave them her card when they said no and assured them that she was great with email, then apologized because she had to get to a meeting with the Secret Service to hopefully get more out of them than Fury had because she looked less likely to bite their heads off and spit them out afterward. 

"If they try to feed me bullshit again," she said with a sigh, "I will not be shy about telling them that they should stick to chasing meth-heads who try to pass counterfeit twenties at 7-11s, but I'll give them the benefit of the doubt first."

After Rasmussen left, Natasha and James poked around on the roof for a little bit and then headed back downstairs, looking over the stairwell once more even though they'd gone over it with Rasmussen earlier. And then they got a taxi to the airport, the ride taking half the time Natasha had budgeted for it, and so they got lunch at the Five Guys and wandered into the newspaper stand to look at headlines. James bought himself the first Harry Potter novel because people with nothing to do on airplanes stood out and everything else had been chick lit or spy thrillers. 

They were flying to Denver and then driving up; there hadn't been enough time for SHIELD to provide them with a clean vehicle, so they had to rent one and clear it themselves. They did a graceful two-person security check in the lot (she dropped the keys so that she could look under the chassis, he 'accidentally' opened the hood while checking that everything on the dash worked and got a look at the engine block) and they disabled the GPS and swept for bugs before they got to the first corner. 

The drive would be almost three hours and it began quietly after Natasha called the safehouse to let them know they were en route. James turned on the radio, but he couldn't seem to find anything he liked, so he turned it off again. He'd gotten a little restless on the plane, not really reading his book and not trying to sleep, just staring out the window at the clouds and fidgeting in a way that had hardly been noticeable and yet deeply distracting at the same time. She'd suspected it was him realizing what he was flying toward -- who he was flying toward -- and didn't press, although she had told him that if he didn't still, she had a paralytic agent and she'd use it. 

"Do you even know what you're looking for?" she asked him after his second attempt at the radio, curious. Steve had had trouble finding modern music that didn't make him wince or laugh. Clint and Tony had separately and together spent a lot of time trying to find something he'd like -- the two of them had surprisingly overlapping tastes -- but it turned out that nature was stronger than nurture and Steve more or less stuck to the music that he probably would have enjoyed best if he'd lived his normal lifespan. He liked the music from the forties and fifties and sixties, the Standards that came right after the war and early pop music and some jazz (but not Miles Davis) and his iPod had a lot of Frank Sinatra and Jo Stafford and The Supremes and Buddy Holly and Elvis was about as edgy as he was likely to get, although he would admit under pressure to liking Adele. But it was mostly what Tony liked to call Old Man Music, although it all tended to appear on the playlists when they were over at Stark Tower for a social occasion anyway.

"Not really," he admitted, sounding a little grateful for the distraction. "I was never sent on any missions where music was something I needed to know or care about."

The Winter Soldier's work had been solitary and silent. The Black Widow's had often been neither, but she'd only decided on her own tastes relatively recently, entirely because Clint had been so absolutely appalled that she had no preferences that she felt obligated to develop them just for the sake of their working relationship. The first moment she'd ever looked at Clint and thought 'friend' was over beers and burgers and _Led Zeppelin II_.

While she was curious what James would think of her affection for Seventies guitar rock, as a gesture of goodwill she pulled out her phone and found out whether Denver had a baseball team, what it was called, if they were playing, and on what station. She thought baseball was dull and slow, but she knew from Steve that James had been a fan. Perhaps he still was. 

He gave her a look when he realized what on the radio.

"Colorado Rockies versus the Arizona Diamondbacks," she reported.

"You like baseball?" he asked, surprised and maybe, she thought, a little hopeful. Or maybe she was imagining it.

"Absolutely not," she replied firmly. "But you can take me to a Rangers game in the winter."

It was a spontaneous thing to say, to presume that he'd be around come hockey season, that he'd want to either go or go with her.

"It's a date," he said with a sly grin and Natasha, for a moment, heard both her James and Steve's Bucky in the insouciant tone. She thought he heard it, too, because he seemed startled and maybe not entirely comfortable with it and the smile faded.

They drove on in silence, only the baseball game between them, for the next fifty miles.

The overlapping layers of security at the safehouse meant that their approach had been monitored from before they'd turned off US-85 and so it was no surprise that the outside lights turned on as they came up the driveway and Natasha could see at least three agents in tactical gear on the sides of the house. They were given retinal scans before they were allowed to climb up the porch steps, where Lieutenant Commander Yondo, the detachment CO, greeted them with a nod.

"Ms. Carter and Captain Rogers are upstairs," he told them. "Second door on the right off the stairs."

The house functioned like a regular house, albeit one with combat-outpost defenses, so they entered into a foyer with an askew row of toed-off shoes, presumably whatever some of the agents wore off-duty, a pegboard for keys, and the other odds and ends that made a home look lived in. Natasha could smell food and see the kitchen down the hallway at the back of the house and then the living and dining room on the sides, but her attention was on the staircase and what came at the other end.

James gave her a quick look like he, too, was considering turning and running and she frowned at them both, steeled herself, and pushed James lightly on the arm so that he'd start climbing. They could hear Peggy's voice as they got to the top landing, telling Steve that he had visitors and who they were, commenting acerbically that Bucky clearly considered timeliness no more of a priority today than when he'd made Steve late to half of the planning meetings during the war. "Don't think we didn't know who you were really apologizing for."

There was a guard, rifle cradled in his arms as he sat with a view to both the stairs and the length of the upstairs hallway, and Natasha nodded to him as they followed Peggy's voice, then nearly walked into James's back because he was frozen outside of Steve's doorway, a look of such utter grief and guilt on his face that she had to tamp down the urge to turn away.

"Well don't just stand there, Sergeant," Peggy exhorted and James shook himself free of his stupor and took steps forward, Natasha behind him, and then stopped again.

There was an empty chair on the other side of Steve's bed from Peggy and Natasha pushed James toward it gently, not sure if he was present enough to recognize her as not an enemy. But he went unresisting. He didn't sit though, instead standing by the bedside over Steve and looking him over as if he wasn't sure Steve was real before she could _see_ the mask drop down as he cataloged Steve's condition with a professional eye and an impassive expression.

Steve looked deceptively unharmed. There was very little amiss below the neck; the damage from the resuscitation efforts was long gone and all that remained was just the mess of tubes and wires and electrodes. Above the neck, Steve's face was still partially obscured by the halo and the ventilator, but Natasha thought that he looked less pale and that made him look a little bit further from death's door than he had been aboard the Helicarrier.

"Jesus, Stevie," James huffed out, his voice breaking. He reached out and gently touched Steve's cheek with his right hand, then pulled it back.

"He's not quite that fragile," Peggy told him softly. "Sit down, catch up, apologize for being so appallingly tardy."

James looked over at Natasha, a maelstrom of emotions on his face, then looked back at Steve. "I think I have worse things to apologize for."

"Of course you do," Peggy agreed, pushing herself to standing and reaching for her cane. "But you know he doesn't hold any of it against you, so just pick the most recent crime and move on."

James shook his head. "I'm the reason he's _here_."

"Aren't you full of yourself, Bucky Barnes?" Peggy asked tartly. "You are not responsible for this and if you want to insist otherwise, you are going to have to fight everyone from Nick Fury on down for the privilege."

He didn't say anything, but Natasha didn't think he looked like he'd bought a word of what she'd said, even if he didn't protest further.

"There will be plenty of time for self-recrimination later, most of which isn't your fault, either," Peggy went on when the silence stretched. "But right now, all you need to do to make things right is _be here_. If you can't do that without apologizing for something, apologize to me for breaking in to my home and scaring me half to death. Although even that's optional as I got quite a few leftovers in the bargain."

Peggy had called Steve, who'd driven down to Philly before calling Clint, who'd called Natasha, who'd ended up dusting Peggy's kitchen table for prints before they'd sat down to pastrami sandwiches and wondered what kind of game was being played on them.

James tried to smile, but it didn't really work. It was close enough for Peggy to give him partial credit, though, and gesture with her free hand to the chair Natasha had pushed him toward earlier. "Sit down and stay a while, I am going to show Miss Romanova the results of Agent Gruning's pie-making adventures."

Peggy cocked an eyebrow at Natasha, as if challenging her, but Natasha, well-used to Peggy's brand of scene control by now, merely gestured for her to go first. They left without James either sitting or protesting, but he could make up his mind without them. Peggy led her past the stairs to the elevator, which had been one of the modifications made. "I try to do at least three trips up and down the stairs daily," Peggy explained as the door slid open. "But I'm slow and it's late and I'm tired."

There were two agents in the kitchen when they arrive, both dressed in jeans and t-shirts and visibly armed.They'd just finished eating dinner and reported that there was plenty more and the female asked if Peggy would like tea. Peggy smiled and said yes, thank you.

"You should eat," Peggy told Natasha once they were settled at the table.

It had been about nine hours since the burgers in DC, but Natasha replied that she'd wait for James and Peggy shook her head. "He'll be there for a while and I am not sure he'll eat later."

Amelia, the agent who was putting up water for Peggy's tea, directed Natasha to where the roast beef and potatoes and salad were in the fridge and then where the plates and microwave were. Natasha sat with her dinner as Peggy steeped her tea and ate Agent Gruning's peach pie, which sat out on the counter under a glass dome.

"Have you gotten anywhere on who did this?" Peggy asked.

Natasha, mouth full, shook her head no. "Shooter's still a ghost and we don't have chatter that rules anything in or out."

Peggy sipped her tea and Natasha ate.

"When Steve brought everyone out of captivity the first time," Peggy began after she finished her pie, "we didn't quite have the support network that exists today. We were on the front lines, in hot pursuit of the Germans across Italy. In most cases, the Army returned the rescued to duty so long as they could march and we were reasonably sure they wouldn't eat their gun."

Natasha put her fork down because this was important. Peggy did not idly wander down memory lane, at least not with her.

"We knew some of them had been experimented upon, _tortured_ , and yet they were not treated differently except that they were brought before military intelligence panels before being assigned to new duties," Peggy went on. "Acknowledging that kind of damage was not the done thing. The men pretended that nothing was wrong and we pretended not to notice when their masks slipped."

In the other room, a television playing on at low volume, but a character screamed and the agents watching it laughed.

"Bucky Barnes was a special case from the first moment," Peggy picked up. "He was the reason Steve had done what he'd done, which would have been enough. But, we eventually realized, he had been Zola's and Schmidt's favorite test subject and, therefore, the most brutally abused. Above and beyond the physical torture of the experimentation, there had been the psychological: the lives of other prisoners had been held over his head in exchange for his compliance. He needed rest and time to distance himself from his experiences, but instead he was asked to relive them in great detail so we could take notes.

"Chester Phillips was already planning what would become the Howling Commandos and everyone knew that Steve would want Bucky with him, so we studiously ignored behavior that was almost impossible to hide and sent him off with the others. We kept it out of the reports entirely, so that even if one were inclined to read between the lines, the true depth would be impossible to fathom."

Natasha knew a little about what James had been through before he'd joined the Commandos; it had been in his file as part of the explanation for why Schmidt had recognized him immediately when he'd been recovered by HYDRA after his fall from the train and presumed death. But the notes had been sparse and none of them had dated back earlier than a year and Natasha had not been able to access all of them even with her security clearance. She'd never gotten the full story, not even after the Winter Soldier became such a priority, and she had wondered at the time how much Fury was letting Steve see, how much Steve already knew, and how much he'd intuited anyway because it had probably been no easier to hide things from him then as now.

"I don't tell these tales out of school on a whim," Peggy said once it was just them again. "Nor to establish my bona fides as someone who knew Bucky Barnes before the fall. I tell you these things because Steve is not able to help him this time. And he deserves far more than we gave him last time."

This was the second time in two days she'd been told to save James from himself because Steve wasn't there to do it and she should resent it. Part of her did because both Fury and Peggy were assuming so much about their shared past, ignorant as they were of the details of its sundering and how much it still hurt Natasha to face what had been done to him because of her. Especially if Sonia's theory was correct and it had truly been about her. She wanted to resent the way they were using her friendship with Steve as a lever to force her into action, but she had a suspicion that if she complained about it to Clint, he'd remind her that she hadn't hesitated a moment to follow Steve to Latveria to find James and this was no different, just with less chance of actual bloodshed.

"What was he like?" Natasha asked instead of pointing out the unfairness of the position she was being put in. Because if she were honest with herself, she would admit that James had meant something very special to her once and, no matter what they were now, she would not see him drown even if she didn't feel any obligation toward Steve. "You're the second person in two days to ask me to make reparations to Bucky Barnes, but I don't know who he is. I've never met him."

Peggy's wry smile faded into a fond one. "I rather suspect you did, although maybe neither of you knew it at the time."

One of the other agents passed through the kitchen, nodding at Peggy, and she nodded back.

"The Bucky I knew was not the one Steve knew," Peggy continued after a moment. "I didn't meet him until after he'd been hardened by war and then tortured by Zola and there was a shadow to him from those experiences that never quite left him. Nonetheless, I think the essentials were probably very similar, if not quite the same. Even if his personality was muted in the first weeks of our association, by the time he got to London to set up the Commandos, we all saw what we were going to get.

"He was, in many ways, Steve's opposite. His complement. He was more worldly than Steve, a realist to Steve's idealist, and he protected Steve fiercely because of that. He was brash and shrewd and far more clever than he ever let on, a little crude, and a skirt-chaser with a success rate that boggled the mind once you'd heard his pick-up lines. A tremendous heart and boundless loyalty, although he reserved those for a select few and the rest could go hang. He was the team sergeant of the Commandos for his own merits, not just because he was Steve's childhood friend or because Dugan didn't want to do it. Sound at all familiar?"

"To Agent Barton, yes," Natasha replied. "To the man I knew, not much."

To the man she had spent the last couple of days with, however, maybe a little. But she'd also seen bits of her James, too. Maybe they were not so separate after all.

Peggy thought the comparison the Clint was funny, but not for the reason Natasha expected. "Steve saw it, too, very much so."

After she finished her dinner, Natasha went upstairs alone; Peggy's bedroom was on the main level and she looked tired. She asked Natasha to say goodnight to Steve for her.

"Do you think he can hear us?" Natasha asked, curious.

"At this stage of his recovery, probably not," Peggy replied. "But that's not why I do it and, besides, we could be wrong."

It was something for Natasha to think about when she got back upstairs and saw James sitting at Steve's bedside, holding Steve's left hand in his right and speaking quietly to him. He stopped talking when Natasha entered the room, although he didn't turn to her and she hadn't done anything to announce her presence.

"Telling him your secrets?" she asked lightly as she stood at the foot of the bed. James turned to look at her; he'd clearly been crying, but he looked happier -- more at peace with himself, perhaps -- than he had earlier.

"Confessing my sins," he answered. "Better to get it out of the way now."

"When he can't hear you?"

"When he can't give me that _look_ and tell me that it doesn't matter."

"He's just going to do it later," Natasha replied and she knew it was ridiculously optimistic to say that, that they didn't know if Steve would ever open his eyes again and, if he did, if he would recognize anyone he looked at. "He's made his peace with what you did."

The others always took care to emphasize James's lack of free will as the Winter Soldier, the compulsion, and spoke of the Winter Soldier's actions like he'd been a separate entity from James. But Natasha was the only one to have really known the Winter Soldier and she understood in ways that the others did not how very uncompelled it must feel for him, how unforced, and therefore how culpable he assumed himself to be.

"At least one of us did," James replied sourly. "But I'm the one who has to live with it under my skin."

Natasha nodded, since there was nothing to be said for that. "If you want to eat, there's food downstairs."

James looked about to protest, but then his stomach rumbled loudly. He makes a face. "Ratted out from within," he groused with false irritation, placing Steve's hand carefully back on the bed and standing up. "You can talk to Natasha for a while," he told Steve. "And make sure you speak up. You know how you get around pretty girls."

He didn't meet her eyes as he left the room. Natasha sat down in the chair Peggy had been using and dragged it up close to the bed so she was about level with Steve's shoulders.

"Your friends have dumped one hell of an assignment on me," she told him. "You are so lucky I like you."


	6. Chapter 6

The first morning in Wyoming began with the scent of baking bread and a clatter in the hallway outside Natasha's bedroom door that woke her up, but didn't escalate into anything that required her half-alert attention. She'd slept very late according to the bedroom clock, not surprising considering how busy she'd been for the last few days and that before that she'd spent the last few weeks nine time zones away. 

Two hours later, she was exercised, showered, and gulping down enough coffee to offset the jetlag and saying yes, please, to the offer of another fresh-from-the-oven roll because there were two bakers among the security detail and Agents Gruning and Foss were _competitive_. 

James had been and gone, she had been told by Peggy, and was now trapped in the secure communications room beginning what would be a days-long discussion about Latveria, Russia, Doom, Lukin, Putin, and what James had seen and done as the Winter Soldier. He'd understood this to be the cost for access to Steve and had shrugged it off last night as a price he was willing to pay when they'd had to discuss details. Nonetheless, Natasha wrapped up the butter-slathered roll in a napkin, refilled her coffee cup, and went to check on him. 

"... my goal really wasn't long term surveillance," James was telling a plasma screen full of analysts split between 44th Street and the Helicarrier and then Nick Fury when she arrived. "I was looking to kill them, not study them."

Natasha sat at a table in the back to eat and listen. James didn't turn around to look at her, but she knew he was aware of her presence. She'd missed the first few hours of the session judging by how the questions were follow-ups about specifics and not big picture fill-ins, but there would be summaries generated later and, she suspected, she already knew those parts of the story. Right now, the analysts were asking him the organizational trees of Lukin's various networks, which was why they'd been frustrated by his aggressive pruning of those branches, especially because he could only make informed guesses about their replacements. 

He reported on his past deeds in a clinical tone, making clear distinctions between what he'd been told as part of his orders, what he'd observed firsthand, and what he'd only figured out after the fact once his mind had been his own. He didn't sound either proud or ashamed of what he'd done, although he never diminished the difficulty or importance of his actions, and never made himself out to be more than what he had been to Lukin. Which was more or less what he'd been to Department X and the Red Room: a tactical asset, not a right-hand man. The analysts wished he'd been more involved with operational and strategic design because it would have answered more questions, but there was nothing to be done for that and James refused to try anyway. 

The session ended about twenty minutes after Natasha arrived, but only for the group of analysts on the screen. James was told he had fifteen minutes before the next session began and he nodded, getting up and leaving the room without comment. He gave her a wry smirk and a "whattya gonna do?" shrug when he passed, but his eyes were still shadowed and he didn't pause to either speak to her or let her speak. 

Fury pushed the two analyst room feeds off the screen so that he could talk to Natasha directly and without witnesses. He asked how things had gone since their arrival. 

"You've got him," she told him without making it sound like a victory. "For as long as Steve's alive. That is precisely the length of your leash, so I suggest you don't yank on it."

Fury frowned. "I don't want him on a leash," he said and Natasha gave him a look that clearly expressed how little she thought of that statement. "But I understand if he feels the need to be on one right now."

The next session was a thematic break from the earlier one because it was led by Erik Selvig, who visibly startled at seeing James, and dealt with the Tesseract. Natasha had things she could be doing, but she stayed because she knew that at some point Selvig or one of his team was going to ask about James's personal experiences with it and she didn't want him alone and unprotected from that. They could ask their questions and she was pretty sure James would answer them, but both events had been either the cause or effect of intense emotional trauma and he needed the support, whether he wanted it or not. Peggy's story of him being asked to relive his experiences at the hands of Zola and Schmidt had not been idly told, but it had also been an unnecessary prompt. Natasha already knew. 

First, however, were the easier questions about what Lukin and Doom intended to do with the Tesseract and how they knew to steal it from Jarno Ahtola in Haifa. SHIELD already knew why and how the Tesseract had returned to Earth and wound up in Ahtola's hands, but they hadn't been sure how Lukin did. The prevailing theory had been Latverian surveillance on Jane Foster, but the actual answer turned out to be Darcy Lewis, who'd been the courier. Much more surprising, however, was the revelation that Lukin had had no idea what he'd sent James to steal, just that it was probably important and would further provoke a SHIELD response. 

"There wasn't a connection between the raid at the SHIELD facility in Powell or the retrieval in Haifa until the box was opened," James told them, which shocked everyone, including Natasha. From SHIELD's perspective, it had looked like Doom and Lukin had known what they were after all along, but instead it turned out to be blind luck. "If I'd known what I was going for in Haifa, I would have gone alone." 

James had recognized the Tesseract immediately because he'd been the one to photograph Selvig's notes in Powell -- Selvig said something that was probably impolite to that, but it was in Swedish and Natasha couldn't even curse in that language -- and had brought it to Lukin alone first, who in turn brought it to Doom. 

The rest of the details from their adventures in Latveria were more or less known and so James was asked to fill in events from the other side, which he did. But then Selvig asked about what had happened when Steve used the Tesseract on him and James paused, then asked for a moment. He turned the volume on the microphone off and turned to Natasha so that his face wasn't visible to the cameras and the group on the other end couldn't read his lips. 

"I don't want you here for this part," he said to her. It wasn't an order and it wasn't unkindly said, but it was very firmly meant. 

"James," she began, but he cut her off. 

"Please, Natalia." He wasn't begging, but he wasn't hiding the plea, either. "This will be a lot easier if it's just a report to the scientists. I'm sure you will be able to read about it later if you're that interested."

"I don't _care_ about the details," she spat back, sharper than she meant to. But she was frustrated; she had gone through this with Clint after the business with Loki and she'd let him push her away, thinking she was letting him salvage his pride, and she'd watched him suffer as a consequence. She wasn't going to do it again. "You shouldn't have to do this alone. You _aren't_ alone." 

James smiled sadly. "Right now, it will be better for me if I am. I'm not trying to punish myself. I'm... trying to protect myself. And I can't from you."

 _You shouldn't have to,_ she didn't shout at him, but she knew better. She couldn't protect herself from him, either, and they were too deadly and too damaged to not accidentally wound the other. 

"It's not a secret, it's a scar," James said when she kept her silence. "It's not going anywhere."

Accepting that this was not a fight she could win -- or maybe one she shouldn't win -- right now, she exhaled through her nose and nodded, gathering up her bunched-up napkin and her coffee cup and standing. She left and he waited for her to close the door behind her before turning back to the inquisitors on the video screen. 

Back in the bustle of the house, Natasha spent the afternoon tending to her own garden of contacts and ongoing SHIELD projects -- constant secure internet and intranet access meant that she could start grinding through the impressive (to Tapper) backlog of reports and notes on her work -- and breaking that up with visits to Steve and Peggy. Peggy didn't spend all day in Steve's room, but she did have her own 'station' set up there with her knitting and her book and the Starkvision tablet upon which she watched movies and television. The security detail agents treated Peggy like the World's Hippest Nonogenarian and provided suggestions accordingly, which probably explained why she was currently mainlining _Breaking Bad_. 

The day had been hot, but it got cool enough in the early evening that Natasha was comfortable in the shade of the wrap-around porch with a glass of iced tea; she had one of the laptops and was typing up her notes from the visit to the warehouse full of HYDRA weapons, since that was the most recent and yet the most overdue because even if she'd sent the pictures in immediately, she hadn't done anything else. 

She heard the door open, but didn't look to see who'd come outside and so she was mildly surprised to see James, beer bottle loosely in hand, standing before her. He gave her a look that was part asking for permission and part apology, so she gestured with her head and he sat down next to her. He didn't say anything, letting his body language show his fatigue, and she returned to her paperwork. They sat in companionable silence, her typing and his attempting to relax, as the rhythm of the house continued around them. 

"Was the warehouse in Cluj Lukin's or Doom's?" she asked casually. She hadn't called him on that particular deception, but there was no reason to maintain it. 

James didn't answer right away and she looked over because she wondered if he'd fallen asleep -- he was just as jetlagged as she was. But if he had, he was awake again and he smiled at her mischievously. "Lukin's."

She and James didn't spend a lot of time together over the next two days, except they sort of did. Natasha sat in on some of James's sessions with SHIELD, absenting herself by choice when necessary, and they had lunch together. But she didn't see him in the evenings after the first one; James's preferred method of decompressing from a day of reliving his past was to borrow Agent Hochimura's sneakers and exhaust himself as physically as the questioning had mentally. He was gone for three hours one night, long enough for Natasha and Peggy to both get concerned, but a discreet inquiry to the outside patrol told them that James had in fact returned an hour ago and was going over the particulars of the house's security setup. 

On the fourth day, Natasha found out that James had apparently volunteered the two of them to be the OPFOR to test the security detail's responses. The questioning in the comms room was ended early and they changed into work clothes, accepted a packed dinner of meatloaf sandwiches, carrot sticks, and cherry handpies, and spent a few hours plotting mayhem a hundred meters outside the boundary of the outer circle of the house's defenses. They made full use of Natasha's having been one of the architects of those defenses, assuming that anyone who really wanted to get to Steve would take the time to get these details for themselves (which was not necessarily a valid assumption, but the numbers for and against were so lopsided that it was a mutually agreed-upon ground rule). 

Natasha was caught on final approach to the house, vaporized into "a fine red mist" by an in-ground explosive; James was terminated with extreme prejudice hanging on to the ledge of the second-floor window of the room two down from Steve's. The after-action debriefing was upbeat in tone, but also serious -- yes, the detail had caught the Black Widow and the Winter Soldier, but they'd also known that the attackers were coming and, ideally, should have been stopped further out than they were. 

The next day, Clint showed up in time for lunch from his place in Nebraska, which he'd arrived at last night for what he hoped would be three weeks of downtime but expected to be closer to two. 

Clint and James greeted each other with wary good manners and a little awkwardness; James had come very close to killing Clint in Italy last year and while that hadn't been _him_ , they both remembered it clearly. At least that's what Natasha thought it was; Peggy apparently had a different theory and told the two of them to stop sniffing around each other like dogs. 

"They're both trying to figure out the other's intentions toward you," Peggy told Natasha when both Clint and James had fled in not-entirely-mock terror, the tension between them seemingly broken. Natasha didn't know what to make of that, although her first reaction was definitely irritation. It was only later that she allowed herself to think about why James cared. 

Clint was easy with Steve in a way that Natasha still was not and she envied him for it. He just sat down next to the bed, put his booted feet up where they shouldn't be, and started talking to Steve like he was going to answer. He updated Steve on baseball standings, asked him if he were listening to the Mets (he was; someone had started putting the games on for him the first night), and generally prattled on about things that Steve might or might not have cared about were he able to respond. He passed on greetings from Tony and Pepper, who were still not allowed to visit; they were too visible and the probability of their movements being tracked was too high. "And Tony's actually listening instead of doing whatever the fuck he wants, so take that as a mark of respect for you, yeah?"

He stayed until the evening, then headed off, promising to come back tomorrow. Which was why he was around in the afternoon when Agent Durant came running in to Steve's room and said that SHIELD wanted both Clint and Natasha in the comms room right away. 

Natasha, who'd been feeling a restless itch under her skin for last day or so, hid her relief. Especially because Clint looked so frustrated. 

"I think my vacation just got canceled," he sighed as he stood up. He turned to Steve. "This had better not be your doing, Buster."

It wasn't. HYDRA had apparently launched a full-scale attack on a bank in Caracas, killing the employees and making off with more than fifty million dollars in gold and bearer bonds. 

SHIELD was mystified because Venezuela had been one of HYDRA's most hospitable hosts, even with Chavez dead, and they hadn't been prone to so viciously biting the hand that fed them before this. 

"Venezuela was collateral damage," James said and that stopped conversation. "Follow the money and that trail will lead you right back to Moscow." 

The bank in Caracas was a Russian money laundry, he explained. The Cold War might be over, but the Russians still spent a lot of time and effort and money to make a mockery of the Monroe Doctrine. Chavez and Castro, among others, had accepted millions in cash and materials to spite the Americans. 

A quick check with the relevant American agencies confirmed his story. But that still left the question of why go after Russia, another HYDRA ally, even if Minyar hadn't exactly gone as either side would have wished. Putin had become a strong anti-HYDRA advocate after Minyar, so it could have been revenge, but this didn't quite fit. 

"Maybe HYDRA just needs the cash," Clint pointed out. "Fifty mil in completely liquid assets is worth three times that in funds on a computer somewhere."

While they were pondering that, there was a separate news bulletin, this time from both China and Moscow. The border crossings with Russia at Manzhouli, Heihi, and Suifenhe had just been bombed along with the train station in Harbin during the morning rush (the Harbin-Khabarovsk train, just in from Russia and unloaded and now full of Chinese citizens, exploded before it departed), and the Chinese embassy in Moscow and the consulate in St. Petersburg were also victims. Nobody was taking credit for it yet, which left everyone to think that it wasn't HYDRA because HYDRA was generally on top of the self-promotion and branding opportunities, plus the targets didn't fit HYDRA's admittedly hypocritical anticapitalist agenda. The Chinese didn't seem to think it was HYDRA, either, because they were already starting to move PLA units to the border regions.

The bombings were very clearly an attempt to make Russia look like it was picking a fight with China, but taken with the bank job in Caracas and it looked much more like someone was setting Moscow up for a fall. Who would throw the gauntlet down like this? 

"You," Clint told James sourly. "Simultaneous bombs in separate countries ring a bell?"

"This is much bigger than I could pull off," James dismissed, unoffended. "Too expensive, too much manpower, and too much carnage. The train station was a soft target; it was chosen to get a reaction from the world media, not send a specific message."

Natasha tamped down on the bile rising in her throat. "It was Lukin," she said. "All of this was Lukin."

She'd thrown the first punch in the fight between Lukin and Putin over Russia by revealing the fate of the Winter Soldier. This was the result. 

"Why would Lukin target Russia like this?" Clint asked, skeptical. He knew what she'd done, but he wasn't seeing the causal relationship. "And why would he use HYDRA to do it?" 

"We don't know if it's a legitimate HYDRA action," Peggy pointed out. She'd come in to the room during the discussion about the money laundering. "They were wearing HYDRA costumes and someone called in to a Caracas television station saying it was HYDRA, but that means nothing, really. It could be a splinter group, but it would also be a perfect false flag operation."

Like al-Qaeda, HYDRA had affiliated groups and splinter groups of varying legitimacy and there was widespread disagreement and confusion about who was actually acting in the name of the actual organization. Or it could simply be a mercenary team dressed up in HYDRA clothes; it wasn't as if Lukin wouldn't know where to find them. 

"This is just going to get messier," Clint groused. 

Natasha was maybe a little quick to volunteer to go back to New York when Hill called in, emphasizing that James should stay behind with Steve and Clint continue his vacation, but Hill was having none of it and said that all three of them were expected back as quickly as could be managed. 

"Am I a SHIELD agent now?" James asked pointedly, although Natasha knew that there had already been discussions between him and either Fury or Hill or both about what he might consider doing on the agency's behalf. 

"You can be if you want," Hill replied easily, unfazed. "But in the meanwhile, even consultants ask how high when Director Fury says 'jump.' Talk to Tony Stark if you don't believe me."

"I don't think she really wants you to talk to Stark about that," Clint said sagely after Hill had terminated the call with an assurance that travel details would be forthcoming. "He's about as obedient as a feral cat and she knows it."

Clint left to go back to his house and close it up again once they got their travel details -- morning flight out of Denver -- and James seemed willing to go along with things, at least for now. But that didn't mean he was prepared to drop everything. 

"Why do you think it's Lukin?" he asked after he'd suggested they go outside to talk for a moment. "It wasn't a wild guess."

Natasha took a moment before she answered, letting the sun beat down on her skin and seeing fire behind her eyelids when she tilted her head back with her eyes closed. She'd been restless the last couple of days and it had been easy to pin the cause on her being in a ranch house in the middle of nowhere with nothing to do but catch up on paperwork, exercise, and poke at her own emotional bruises by sitting with Steve and chastising herself for all that she couldn't give him even now. But there'd been another cause, one that was currently watching her carefully. In the week since Romania, time spent with James had become less about obligation and responsibility, had instead taken on the distinct characteristics of the beginnings of friendship -- and maybe more. And she knew he looked at her with something other than nostalgia in his eyes. And it had scared her because it made her feel vulnerable. 

But the next wound wouldn't be hers. "I burned you when I was looking for Steve's shooter," she said, forcing herself to look him in the eye. "I told the Russians you were at large."

James could connect the dots from there and she could see when he did by the change in expression on his face. But she'd also seen the surprise and the hurt first, despite him knowing damned well that a week ago, before he'd come to her and she'd allowed herself to become his safety buoy in this strange sea, they had been operating at cross purposes and she'd had no reason to be loyal to him. He'd accept it -- or he wouldn't -- eventually. She didn't know this new man well enough to know if or when. But it wasn't going to be right now because he nodded at her once, sharply, and turned and went back into the house. 

She followed after a moment, entirely because she didn't want to get sunburned. 

James spent the rest of the evening with Steve -- Natasha wasn't sure if it was because it was where he most wanted to be with time dwindling down or because he was calling out her cowardice by daring her to follow. She had to go in there eventually, though, to discuss what time they were leaving the following morning; it would have to be by 5 AM at the latest. 

When she did venture upstairs, she could hear Peggy and James having a testy conversation before she could make out the words. James was different with Peggy than he was with everyone else, Natasha included. It was a relationship clearly reliant on what they'd had in the 1940s; Peggy gave him no quarter and he took it without protest. She called him Bucky, the only one to do so with the agents still sticking with 'Mister Barnes' even if they were beginning to mean it affectionately. And while she was quick to call him on his moodiness and attempts to assume guilt, her interactions with him were also the most normal he had because while they had history, they didn't have _weight_. At least until now. 

"I want you to promise me something," Peggy was saying as Natasha approached in the hallway and she could hear James sigh loudly in protest. "I want you to promise me that when this is all over, when you have chased down Steve's would-be assassin and paid back the insult with interest, you come back to him. No more running away."

Natasha stopped walking and stood still. She was close enough to see into the room and couldn't turn around and leave without drawing attention, but this wasn't a conversation she was meant to hear. 

"Peggy..."

"Don't _Peggy_ me," Peggy snapped. "You had six months to find your courage and face him and you wasted it. I will not see you waste any more time. Both of you have been granted something extraordinary and now it's time to see past the terrible cost of what can be a wonderful gift if you'd just let it."

Natasha didn't think she was imagining that Peggy was talking to both James and Steve at this moment.

"I can't see any kind of _gift_ ," James said. "I see blood and death and betrayal and a joke everyone was in on but me. I can't be anything for anyone right now. Steve has you and--"

"Not for much longer," Peggy cut him off, a wobble in her voice. "I'm ninety-seven and have already been granted as much extra time as I could hope for and I have less every day. I can _do_ less every day. I won't be here for him for as long as he needs me."

She stopped to wipe her eyes and regain her composure.

"I need you to be there for him when I can't," Peggy continued after a moment. "I say this without any ego, but my death is going to destroy him. Don't ask him to lose both of us again."

Natasha didn't understand the 'again' at first, since Steve hadn't lost Peggy the first time, rather the other way around. And then she got it: their future together.

James said nothing, just hung his head.

"You have a little time to get used to the idea," Peggy continued with bravado when he didn't look up. "I'm still kicking hard enough. But when it's time, I'd like to know that you'll be there for him."

James still said nothing, but Natasha could see him nod.

"Thank you," Peggy said quietly and James got up to leave the room. He met Natasha's eyes as he passed her in the doorway and the look in his was raw and defenseless and too much like that flash from earlier and she looked away, letting him pass. She waited a few beats before going in to the room, enough time for Peggy to dab at her eyes again and put on her brightest smile. Natasha didn't think for a moment that she was expected to buy it. 

She found James later and they had a quick, awkward conversation about departure times. They slept for a few hours, at least Natasha did, and a quiet knock on her bedroom door at 0330 woke her. The night duty nurse stepped out to give them a moment to say goodbye to Steve and Natasha wondered if she should go, too, because James was speaking quietly in the Brooklyn accent that got thicker when he talked to Steve. He caressed Steve's cheek with the back of his right hand and didn't look at Natasha as he left to get his things.

"I'll do my best," she told Steve from the foot of his bed. "I'm sorry."


	7. Chapter 7

She and James rode back to Denver in silence until they saw the first sign telling them that they were approaching the airport.

"Peggy told me I was being an idiot," James said, not looking at her as he drove.

Before yesterday afternoon, Natasha would have asked which time, but she held her tongue then and there. She might not like the consequences to her actions and she might not be pleased with herself even if she still felt she'd done the right thing, but that did not deny that James had been wronged. She'd lost the right to tease him.

"She said I could get angry at you for not warning me, and I am," he continued on, as if she'd asked for clarification. "But the rest is really on me. She said I'd been making a statement and I should have known better than to think it would remain a monologue or that the Russians wouldn't have figured it out on their own even if you hadn't goosed them."

"You weren't being subtle," she ventured to agree. She waited for another two road signs to pass before she said anything else. "I didn't think I was throwing you to the wolves; you're very good at keeping yourself safe. I thought they were about to figure it out and if I could use it while it still had value, then maybe I could get something about Steve."

James didn't reply to that until they were pulling into the rental car place to return the vehicle. "I'm not okay with being blindsided like that. But I'm fine with you trading me in to avenge Steve."

She looked up from where she was digging through her bag for the rental agreement. "Then Peggy was right. You are an idiot."

She got out of the car and went straight to the office without looking back, too angry with him -- and still with herself -- to make sure that they were on the road to mending before they began the next step. 

Clint was already in the waiting area by the gate when they arrived, sunglasses on, booted legs outstretched, head tilted back and face mostly covered by a ballcap. He looked like any other Midwesterner, which he was, albeit a hungover one because there came a point when all kinds of exhaustion began to look alike. He appeared to be sleeping, but Natasha knew better. When she and James sat down on the bank of seats across from him, he tilted his head enough that she could see his eyes over the sunglasses and he quirked an eyebrow because _of course_ he'd noticed her and James's body language. She shook her head minutely and he rolled his eyes and tilted his head back, waiting for their flight to be called for boarding. The three of them slept on the flight to Newark, as did most of the other passengers, and Clint, who'd been seated separately from her and James, gave them a critical look when they reconvened inside the terminal at Newark.

"Are you done with whatever it is you two were doing?" he asked with weary asperity. "Because if you're not, I want to know what it is. I'm the one they're going to be pulling aside to ask questions about you two. And I really don't think you guys want to test my creativity when it comes to giving them an answer."

Natasha looked to James, who scratched at his stubble. "We'll be fine," he said. "It's over."

Clint's expression clearly expressed that he didn't think much of their ability to drop hard feelings. 

James's ID got him in to SHIELD headquarters on 44th Street without a second glance from the security team. Natasha had seen him pass through a metal detector without setting it off a few times already, but Clint hadn't and he made a face. 

"I kinda want to go back to the screener and ask them why they didn't notice the guy with the _metal arm_ , let alone whatever you got hiding on you," he told James seriously as they walked toward the elevator bank. "Technology is all well and good to support, but use your fucking eyes. This is why we get broken into more than the pantry in an orphanage."

The three of them were all orphans, after a fashion, and so it was an apt reference. She was reminded of Steve, who'd confessed to being a pretty successful pantry thief as a child, goaded on by James. She'd teasingly expressed shock that a man with such a legacy for probity would turn out to be such a reprobate and he'd shrugged. "I lie a lot," he'd said simply. "I still do. I just try to make it for the right reasons." 

The briefing was held in an auditorium, the large room already well-populated with analysts and some of the Direct Action Team commanders whose regions of specialization covered Venezuala or China or Russia -- Clint greeted Corrales warmly as they entered. Most of the analysts were from the same regional special sections, but Natasha recognized HYDRA task force members and a few others from departments that indicated that Fury and Hill were casting a wide net for answers. She nodded in passing to Miranda Tung, who was there as part of the large China Desk contingent, pretending she didn't notice Miranda's shocked expression upon seeing James. 

But Miranda was only one of many. James wasn't the sole object of attention as he followed Clint up the stairs, but nearly so. The Russia Desk and especially the reps from the Latveria Desk were murmuring and openly staring even though some of them had been talking to him over video for most of the last week. James looked unaffected to the casual observer, but she could tell by his posture that he was profoundly uncomfortable with the attention and he let out a relieved gust of breath when the Assistant Deputy Director who was going to be running the show stood up to the podium and everyone was required to face front and not sneak peeks behind them.

The updates from the China and Russia desks were mostly still preliminary. The Chinese were understandably furious and the Russians were launching a desperate defense in the court of public opinion as well as through official channels. The border between the two countries was rapidly militarizing even more than usual, the Russian ambassador to China had been in with the General Secretary all day, and Russia was loudly declaiming its innocence at the UN, where nobody was quite taking them seriously. There had been no statements on the Caracas bank robbery at all from Russia, just news releases from the Venezuelans.

The discussion that followed was mostly a more in-depth version of what they'd discussed informally in Wyoming yesterday, assessing possible culprits and likely courses of action and Natasha was unsurprised to see her suggestion that Lukin was behind the bombings as a means to destabilize Russia and therefore Putin treated seriously. There was a heated argument about Lukin's influence inside Russia, with the Latverian Desk reps of the opinion that the Russia Desk analysts were overselling Lukin's role. The response to that was to point out that there was an expert on the matter sitting next to Agent Romanova and maybe he should answer.

ADA Sepulveda interrupted, a smile on his face and steel in his voice, and suggested that the Russia and Latveria Desks could form a working group and come up with their own answers and, if they requested clarification, he was sure Mister Barnes would be happy to lend assistance, but they were paid to do their own thinking. It was the first time James's name had been used and that confirmation seemed to justify a new round of staring and whispering and Natasha -- and Clint on James's other side -- glowered at everyone as if their displeasure could be a force field. James kept his head up, looking past everyone to no particular point at the front of the room, and waited for Sepulveda to start talking again. 

There were other directives issued and assignments made, but the meeting broke up without any real new ground covered.

They waited for most of the room to empty out before standing so that James wouldn't have to run the gauntlet twice. Miranda paused and looked up at them, like she might approach, but then she was summoned by her supervisor.

"I'm sorry if this was a waste of your time," Sepulveda apologized. He'd asked them to wait by gesturing with his hand as he'd fielded questions from others. "You were brought in to be instantly deployable, but I think we thought we'd have more to work with by now. You're probably going to get sent right back across the Atlantic, too."

Natasha looked at James for a moment, in case he should correct Sepulveda, but he didn't. "Sleeping in my own bed for a few days won't be the worst SHIELD has done to me," she assured with a smile.

Sepulveda wished James a welcome home, to which he gave an awkward thank you, and, after confirming that they were findable through Tapper, they were told to take the rest of the day off and get over their jet lag. "I know you've both been keeping a hard schedule since Cap's passing."

Natasha had thought about using some of the resources in the SHIELD archives, but James was drawing stares as they moved through the halls, so when Clint suggested that they get out of Dodge quickly, she agreed.

James waited until they were outside and walking up Sixth before confirming that the DAD had no idea where they had been or who they had been with.

"Only people who know are the Avengers, Fury, Hill, Tapper, and the security detail and medical staff at the house," Clint answered. "There was a whole pantomime to get him off the Helicarrier without anyone else knowing he wasn't dead. Including some friends."

"Including the Chinese girl in the blue dress?" James asked. "Is that Miranda?"

"That's Miranda," Clint confirmed with a smile, amused that he knew who she was, but then he sobered. "I wish we could tell her. She's pretty much the only real friend Steve had away from work and we already know she can keep a big fucking secret."

They ended up in Little Brazil for what looked like after-work drinks but was really a quiet planning session. Knowing what SHIELD was doing on the intelligence and analyses fronts, they could speculate on what else would be required and where else it might lead. James wanted to go to Latveria and confront Doom, which Natasha thought was a terrible idea and Clint backed her up. 

"You're still thinking like a shit-disturber," he pointed out over caipirinhas and bolinhos de bacalau and pão de queijo. "We are going to have to talk to Doom at some point, but that's gonna be a 'we' and it's gonna be at a time when we have a better idea what the results will be. We can't toss dynamite into the pond to see what comes up so early in the game. We're just gonna end up killing most of the fish."

James looked like he didn't mind killing all of the fish. 

"That got you nowhere," Natasha pointed out before he could say so out loud. "That's why you came to us."

She didn't say 'me,' even though that would have been more accurate. 

They were debating the likelihood -- the inevitability, really -- of a trip to Russia when Natasha's phone started vibrating. It was Tony, who was calling because he figured she'd have been brought back to New York by now in response to the bombings. He invited her -- and Clint when she said he was with her -- to dinner; Bruce had gotten in this morning for an already-scheduled visit to New York and it would be like a little reunion. "Just without the big blond guys." Tony sounded a little off and Natasha didn't need to wonder why; out of all of them, Tony had taken Steve's incapacitation the hardest. Not falling-into-a-bottle hard, although there had definitely been a few bouts of that, but hard enough. 

They hadn't all been together since before Steve had been shot. The last time might have even been at Steve's place, a dinner party he'd thrown for no real reason but that he could and everyone was around, or at least gatherable. He'd been a relaxed, easy host -- he always was -- and Tony had teased him mercilessly about his domesticity. 

Here and now, Natasha looked at James and Clint before replying. "The two of us are actually the three of us. I don't think--"

"Are they interesting?" Tony cut in, that off-note ringing brassily again. He didn't sound drunk, but he had that edge of... not desperation, but something she recognized from her Natalie days as the potential for trouble on the horizon. "Bring 'em."

"I don't think it's a good idea," she said again, keeping her tone easy. Across from her, James was watching with wary curiosity and Clint with something a little more aware. 

"Is it Barnes?" Tony asked. 

"How did you know?" She didn't hide her surprise. 

Tony chuckled, a little darkly but mostly amused. "If you don't think I haven't had that name tagged to send up flares any time anyone at SHIELD types it out, you don't know me very well."

Tony routinely hacked SHIELD's network, something Fury was not as ignorant about as he pretended to be, but while most of what he did was to protect himself, flagging James's name had been to protect Steve. In case Fury chose not to tell him something. In case _she_ chose not to defy Fury's wishes not to tell him something, too, but Tony was probably gracious enough to leave that part out. 

"I know you well enough," she replied archly. "Which is why I'm saying that I'm not sure it's a good idea."

In whatever limbo she and James were in right now, with whatever disorder there'd been over the last day, she still felt responsibility toward him and dropping him headfirst into an intimate gathering of Steve's closest associates -- his closest _friends_ \-- was not something done lightly. Or possibly at all on his first day really back in the world as James Barnes, erstwhile Commando, and not in the tiny bubble that had been the house in Wyoming. He'd been uncomfortable surrounded by strangers at SHIELD and they'd largely left him alone save for the rude staring. This would not be that. 

"No, bring him," Tony insisted. "It'll be fine. Bruce is here, nothing's going to get too loud."

The brassy edge of his voice had disappeared, replaced by something gentler and more knowing. Understanding. Which was probably why, after Clint's subtle nod (he would have guessed the context by now), she agreed. 

"We don't have to go," Natasha told James after she'd explained. 

"But you think we should," he finished. He'd looked less than overjoyed at the news, but like he was prepared to endure it nonetheless. 

"From a purely pragmatic standpoint, if doing what we need to do comes down to operating outside of SHIELD parameters, then Tony can be very useful," she answered. James had read the report on the Doomstadt adventure; he could figure out what she meant.

"On the personal side," Clint added with a tone that made it clear that he didn't think Natasha had considered one and should have, "I think it would do _everyone_ some good."

James looked at her like he was searching for something, but she didn't know what it was, whether it had to do with the last day or the week before it or something else entirely. She held her gaze steady and let him. 

He nodded, although she wasn't sure she'd given him an answer. 

"Also," Clint added as he drained the last of his drink, not missing the moment at all, "someone else pays for booze and food."

They settled the tab and walked over to Stark Tower.

James was clearly uncomfortable on the elevator ride up, fidgety and steeling himself for what awaited them in the penthouse, but Clint called him on it. "It's dinner, not Fight Club. You could take them all, but you won't have to."

James chuffed out an embarrassed laugh as the doors opened and they entered the apartment, where Pepper and Bruce were sitting on the couch chatting and Tony was standing opening a bottle of wine.

Pepper's look of surprise made it clear that Tony had not mentioned who the extra guest was going to be. She recovered well, as she always did, and rose gracefully, greeting them and introducing herself to James, who asked to be called Bucky with a half-embarrassed shrug.

"I'm glad you're here," she told James, clasping his right hand in both of hers. "Very truly so."

James, stunned a little by the strong emotion, managed a sharp nod and Pepper smiled, biting her lip. Natasha could see the warning signs of unshed tears before Pepper turned away, letting Tony take center stage.

Tony and James looked each other over frankly, but then Tony saw the metal of James's left forearm -- he'd nervously pushed his sleeve up a little on the elevator -- and Natasha could see the wheels start to turn. SHIELD's files on the history of James's arm were thin and mostly outdated; the prosthetic he wore now was of Latverian design and construction and they had nothing on it.

"At the earliest socially acceptable moment, I want to play with your arm," Tony said, eyes still on it.

"I'm not sure there's ever a socially acceptable moment for that, Stark," Clint said from down in the main seating area, where he was talking to Bruce.

"Also, I think I can probably build you a better one," Tony added, reaching out for James's hand and then stopping himself, like he remembered at the last moment that this was The Winter Soldier and there could be unpleasant consequences. That it would be impolite had undoubtedly never crossed his mind. 

James took a half-step back and held up both hands in defense, his left a little further out of reach. "This one does everything I need."

"Except blend in," Tony retorted, unfazed and unpersuaded. "It's summer and you're wearing long sleeves to cover up. I can definitely get you something that will look and feel like real skin and won't smell like plastic or industrial lubricant. Not to mention offer up a few other bells and whistles that can come in handy. How's the tactile sensitivity on that thing? We've been working on prosthetics for years. This--"

"Tony," Pepper cut him off firmly. "Stop coveting other people's appendages."

Tony gave her a bright, genuine smile. "Nobody's appendages are coveted more than yours, Pep. And the rest of you, too."

Pepper rolled her eyes and escorted James and Natasha to the main seating area, where Clint and Bruce were waiting. 

Bruce's greeting was low-key and James seemed grateful for that. Bruce was in good spirits, mellow and more curious than anything about James, who in turn was curious about the man with the gentle voice and the terrible alter ego. 

Natasha greeted Bruce with a smile. She was always a little reserved around him because she and the Hulk had not had the best of relationships. She was the only one he'd tried to kill -- as opposed to batter about indifferently -- and he'd done it twice, although once it had been by proxy, another woman with red hair Steve had had to risk his life to save. Bruce had assured her that the Other Guy's ire was not some passive-aggressive attitude on his part and he was always kind and quietly friendly toward her, but she doubted the two of them would ever have the relationship Bruce had with the others save Thor, whose relationships worked on completely different parameters than anyone else's anyway.

There was wine and beer and a selection of dips and vegetables and breads because Marcel, Tony's personal chef, enjoyed showing off and, she suspected, missed them a little, too. Natasha accepted a glass of white wine from Tony and a small plate dotted with dollops of green and gold and rust and cream and what to dip in them from Pepper and took a seat on the couch facing west, so she could see the rainbow sky of a summer sunset over New York City. She had hated almost all of her time as Natalie Rushman, for various reasons, but there had been small things she did not despise and Tony Stark's penchant for breathtaking vistas and a chance to quietly enjoy them had been one of them.

When she returned her attention to the others, now all set up with drinks and food, they were talking about Steve, which was probably to be expected. Bruce was forbidden near the Wyoming house for different reasons than Tony and Pepper, but it still meant that the three of them had not seen Steve since before his 'death' more than a month ago. While they could get updates -- Fury was very willing to compromise there in exchange for adherence to the ban -- it was not the same.

"... off the respirator, but how does he _look_?" Tony was asking.

"Pinker," Clint replied. "Less like a wax sculpture."

"And?" Bruce prompted.

"And that's it," Clint answered with a shrug and a sip of his beer. "From the neck up, he still looks like a construction project. From the next down, he looks like he always does except he's lost a little weight and the calluses on his hands are gone."

Natasha hadn't noticed Steve's hands and she felt a little ashamed because if she'd touched him at any point, she would have.

They discussed the setup in Wyoming a little, the layout of the house, the staffing, the security. James finally spoke up, after sitting uneasily and silently next to Clint near Bruce, to say that he was comfortable with it and that he and Natasha had tested it last week and not found it wanting. 

"How is Peggy doing?" Pepper asked. "This has all been so very hard on her, but then to uproot her life... I'm sure she never gave it a second thought, but I also know that this was not how she planned the sunset of her days."

Natasha looked over at James, who'd spent the most time with Peggy and seen her at her most vital and her most cognizant of her mortality and been the focus of both extremes. He had been looking down at his beer glass, but maybe sensing her gaze, he looked up and his expression, for a moment long enough that she knew he meant for her to see it, was so very vulnerable. And then he looked away because Pepper was still waiting for an answer and looking at him. 

"She's being Peggy Carter," Clint answered before James had to. "Which is still what Nick Fury wants to be when he grows up. Mostly the most badass grandma ever and the entire detail keeps trying to impress her so that they'll be her favorite. The rest of the time, she's bored as fuck and missing her life in Philly."

"She wouldn't change a thing," Natasha added. "She's exactly where she wants to be. Where she _needs_ to be. Even when she's bored."

"Although if Steve doesn't improve faster than he is, she might just get bored enough to become the crystal meth queen of Wyoming," Clint cracked, which necessitated explaining what Peggy was watching on television these days, which made Tony and Pepper and Bruce laugh until they cried. 

James smiled a little, but not with any real energy. Natasha thought he was thinking about Peggy, with whom he'd clashed at times, but who was also, as she had been for Steve, the last link he had to his past. Which for James, far more than for Steve, was something precious because it was untouched by the taint that had come after. Natasha didn't think James missed the person he'd been before he'd gone to war, before Schmidt and Zola had gotten their hands on him the first time; she wasn't sure if he even remembered who that man had been. But he missed being Bucky Barnes, Howling Commando, all the more so because he didn't think he could ever be that man again. And that frustrated her because he could be, at least in part, if he'd let himself. Maybe he would, down the line, but it was still too soon. She wouldn't press him on it, at least not yet. So she watched him tonight, mostly silent, not sullen or withdrawn, just with nothing to say and unsure of his place to say anything. This was nothing like her James and, from what she has learned, even less like Bucky, but it was nothing at all like the Winter Soldier and so long as he didn't retreat into that, it would do.

Pepper did try to draw him out, asking him carefully about his status with SHIELD. He explained that he had accepted consultant status for now -- "good choice!" Tony chirped -- but he was unhesitant to add that it was mostly to keep his access to Steve and Peggy.

As they followed the summons to the dining table, Bruce expressed his surprise that James would even go so far as to agree to carry a SHIELD ID at all. 

"What Fury wants me to do is more or less what I was going to do anyway," he replied and nobody needs that translated. "If I can do it with SHIELD's resources backing me up, well, all the better. I've been turned out by lesser people for lesser goals and this way, I can still keep an eye on Steve and Peggy."

It was a bitter and cynical things to say until it wasn't.

Pepper tried to keep the actual table conversation lighter and without references to murder or dismemberment and, because she was Pepper, succeeded, with one notable exception. But Tony really was fascinated by James's arm.

"Has SHIELD put you up in a hotel or are you stuck in the dormitory?" Bruce asked James as they finished the first course, a summer vegetable galette. 

James looked utterly surprised at the question.

"Ah, shit," Clint grumbled. "I knew we forgot something. Is it too late to call the 'Carrier?"

"Why is anyone calling SHIELD for a bed?" Tony asked, perplexed. "You've got a couch, Natasha's got a few surfaces to sleep on, and we've got a few _floors_ of guest accommodations. You call the Helicarrier now, you're going to get a probationary agent who's going to put him up in a Motel Six in Paramus."

Which was probably true on all counts, but Natasha, who had also genuinely forgotten to find out what sort of lodging arrangements had been made for James, was hesitant to offer her own couch, since it could be interpreted as a gateway to her bed and she was not ready to think about that yet. But offering up the personal spaces of anyone else was forward and might not be welcome. For all that James was calling himself Bucky, however uneasily, and was committed for the time being to work on the on the side of the angels (as defined by Nick Fury), he was still enough of The Winter Soldier, who had shot Natasha once, Clint twice, and killed more than anyone really wanted to count. And that did not necessarily make him ideal houseguest material. 

"I don't want to put anyone out," James, clearly sensing, that, said before anyone else could say anything. "I can get a place. SHIELD just told me I get thirty-five years of back pay and a pension from the Army. I can spring for a hotel."

"They gave you your DD-214?" Clint exclaimed, incredulous. "I had to wait to be rung up on treason charges before they gave me mine."

It had been long enough that Natasha didn't flinch at that, but it was a near thing not to wince.

"Please tell me you're going to spend it in more interesting fashion than Captain Boring did," Tony pleaded. "A subscription to MLB Extra Innings and buying out the farmer's market is not exactly living la vida loca."

"You ate very well off of those farmer's market runs," Pepper chided, then turned to James. "You wouldn't be putting us out if you stayed here. There's nobody on the personal guest quarters levels right now, so you'd have privacy, amenities, security, access to JARVIS, and I promise to keep Tony from stealing your prosthetic."

James clearly wanted to decline and Natasha could understand why, even though it was probably the best option. She was almost on the verge of accepting on his behalf when Tony tapped his plate with his knife.

"Steve's place," he announced. "Why don't you stay there? Nobody's using it, it's secure as hell, it's private, you'll recognize the pictures on the wall, and we already know where the creepy SHIELD surveillance is and what to do with it. Because you know wherever they put you that's not here, they're going to try to tag you."

"That's actually a really good idea," Clint admitted.

"I come up with them on a semi-regular basis," Tony replied magnanimously. "But seriously, it's perfect. And I have spare keys."

James nodded, although he didn't look too enthusiastic about it. The matter settled, Tony moved on to the next topic.

Dinner finished and they went out on to the balcony for coffee and dessert and brandy. It was pleasant, if not quite the easy flow of past Avengers social events.

After a polite interval lasting precisely long enough for Tony to eat a couple of berry tarts, he begged and pleaded for James to let him scan the prosthetic arm so that he could start building the newer model. 

"It can be a spare!" 

Pepper looked pained as she sighed and asked Tony to please stop accosting their guests.

James surprised them all by agreeing. "I have a very mixed history of listening to a Stark say 'Trust me, I know what I'm doing,'" he warned. Everyone laughed because it had been funny when Steve had made those jokes, too, but Natasha smiled because James hadn't spoken much at all about his life before the Winter Soldier. 

Bruce trailed along behind them, shrugging guiltily as Pepper teased him gently for his prurience. But he was smiling as he did so. 

"I can see some of the man Steve tried so hard to save," Pepper said when it was just her and Clint and Natasha. Just the ladies, really, because Clint was out on the balcony's lower level aiming the telescope at the stars. "But he's been through so much and those scars are so deep."

Natasha's relationship with Pepper was complicated and discrete from her relationship with Tony. Pepper didn't see her as either a sister or a betrayer, didn't hold Natalie either over Natasha's head or near to her own heart. But Pepper liked Natasha, despite everything, and she respected Natasha, also despite everything, and she saw a kinship of a different sort between them and Natasha... didn't mind. Liked it, actually. She didn't have many friends and few of them were female and if Pepper wasn't quite a friend, she was still a woman Natasha could spend time with and not have to feel like it was a competition or that they were a threat to each other and it was refreshing. And there were, Natasha would grudgingly admit, many things that Pepper could teach her still.

"It's not the same as with Steve, that endless reservoir of grief and pain that he just marched steadily through until he didn't feel it anymore," Pepper went on. "It's so much darker and more damaged. I hope we can do something, even a little bit, to ease that pain. So he'll be in that much better a frame of mind to face Steve for real when the time comes."

And that was why Natasha liked Pepper, in a nutshell. She didn't presume on some imagined sisterhood to ask about Natasha's relationship with James, past or present. And she didn't tell Natasha that it was her obligation, for Steve's sake, to get James's head on straight. She saw the problem with clarity and nuance, acknowledged the scope of it, and then said 'we' and not 'you.'

"Someone should call SHIELD and tell them we're going to be using Steve's place for Barnes," Clint called up from where he was now aiming the telescope at Brooklyn. "Or else Matt Corrales and his boys are going to be busting through the door in tac gear and full magazines before he figures out where the bathroom is."

Natasha frowned. "You have Tapper's number in your phone," she called down.

"He's pissed at me," Clint replied. "This is going to piss him off even more and I'm going to get sent to Egypt again."

"Man up, Agent Barton," Pepper challenged, smile on her face. "And I have it on good authority that you don't hate Egypt nearly as much as you insist you do."

"You've never driven in Cairo," Clint retorted, but he pulled out his phone anyway. And sent a text instead of making a call.

When it came time to leave, someone had to go with James down to Steve's apartment to show him where it was and how it worked. Natasha wasn't sure it should be her, whether one very long day was enough to make the late night subway ride less awkward than the pre-dawn car ride had been. So she didn't volunteer, instead letting Pepper -- who was discreet, but not blind -- leave it open to James to choose his companion so that he could ask Clint if he wanted. 

He asked her. 

They walked to the subway with Clint, who was going to continue on foot to his place because it was a nice night. The subway ride was short enough that not talking wasn't a statement or even awkward. 

"Jesus," James coughed when they got out in DUMBO, looking around in open surprise at how the neighborhood had changed over the decades. What had once been an industrial zone was now one of the most expensive areas in the city and he shook his head at the places and people they passed on the way to Steve's apartment, a loft in a converted factory. Natasha went up the stairs first, ready to call SHIELD in case they hadn't disarmed the extra security they'd put in place since Steve's shooting, but they had and so she was able to get in easily once she'd figured out the keys and the biometric lock. 

She opened the door, turned on the lights, dropped the keys into the little bowl by the doorway, toed off her shoes, and then went to the controls for the central air conditioning because the place was stuffy and warm. James stood by the door, still and observant. 

"Come on," she told him, gesturing with a tilt of her head. "The nickel tour awaits."

The apartment was neat but lived-in. SHIELD continued to send their secure cleaning service even after Steve's 'death,' so someone had emptied out the fridge and the fruit bowl and even watered Steve's burgeoning collection of herb pots on the kitchen window ledge. But the rest was the same, evidence of a life interrupted. There was a now-outdated _Sports Illustrated_ folded open on the kitchen island, a US Army baseball cap covering up one of Steve's sketch pads on an accent table, and a half-finished painting on the easel, the line drawing standing out like skeleton bones. It was what Steve had thought he'd be returning to on a warm Monday night in May. She didn't think it was optimism that kept the cleaning service arriving weekly and still following Steve's requests to not move things more than they had to; it was obvious whose home it was and that they were cleaning up after a dead man. But it wasn't the sort of question that she would have asked Fury and now it was no longer important. She'd have to remember to tell James that the cleaners showed up on Tuesday mornings so there wasn't an incident.

But here and now, it was hard for Natasha to look at, the immediacy of it all so very strong. James, meanwhile, was both extremely curious and profoundly nervous. He paused in front of everything that really mattered to Steve -- and he found these unerringly, even if they were not what anyone would look at first. A blue bud vase, for instance, imperfectly glazed, that Steve had picked up at the farmer's market because it had reminded him of something he'd had with him from his mother until he'd enlisted. James picked it up, looked it over to possibly see if was the original one, and put it down with a chuckle.

He spared only a passing glance at the row of photos on the mantle, turning away as if by force. If he'd looked longer, he would have seen a silly one of him there, holding a stuffed rabbit toy in one hand and his sniper rifle in the other and grinning, a group photo of the Commandos, and the most recent addition, which had been a present from Tony: a color photo of Steve and James in a pub in London in their service uniforms, ties tucked into their blouses but askew nonetheless, sitting in a booth and leaning against each other at the shoulder, smiling blearily at the camera with matching looks that owed more to exhaustion than alcohol. Howard Stark had taken it and Tony had only found the negative last year, during the search for The Winter Soldier, and he'd held off on giving it to Steve until a couple of months ago.

The apartment was large, but uncomplicated in layout and form, so it didn't take long for James to orient himself. Which was not the same as making himself comfortable, but that was too much to expect right away. 

"So this is it," she told him as they stood in the living room. "The rest is pretty self-explanatory. We probably won't have to show up at 44th Street tomorrow, so you'll have some time to get adjusted, or at least start to. You have my number and you have Clint's and Tony's, although he's probably going to--"

"Can you stay?" James asked, embarrassed and apologetic both. "I don't mean... I'm not asking for anything beyond that. I'll sleep on the couch. Just... I think I underestimated how weird this would be. I lived with him for most of my life before..." he trailed off, holding out his left arm, shorthand for everything that has been done to him. "I've washed his underwear and I've worn his socks. This shouldn't be wrong, but that's what it feels like."

Natasha watched him, right hand in his hair and a slightly wide-eyed look on his face. He was overwhelmed and, she thought, ashamed. For asking her for comfort, maybe, but mostly because of who he still felt himself to be. 

"You're no less worthy to share his things now than you were then," she told him firmly. She was still feeling the whiplash, a little, of the day's emotional roller coaster, but this was a simple thing to give. "I'll take the couch. I've slept on it before."

She dug out pajamas and a toothbrush from her bag, then helped James find towels in the linen closet. 

She was woken up in the middle of the night by James having a nightmare; he cried out in English, she groggily noted before burrowing back down into the cocoon of the sheets. She wouldn't check on him because he'd hate to have his vulnerability reinforced like that. 

In the morning, they went out for breakfast because there was no food in the apartment. It was pleasant and unforced, even if James was still showing the strain and bewilderment of trying to live as Bucky Barnes. What had happened between them hadn't been forgotten, but it had maybe been accepted. They could move on. They stopped at the grocery and drugstore for essentials so James could have things in the house even if they were going to be traveling soon. He knew what he wanted, moved around in the stores without hesitation, and if she squinted a bit, it was all very normal. It made her curious if he'd ever had a place of his own since he'd left the one he'd shared with Steve, if after he'd gotten out of stasis permanently there'd been anywhere he could have called his for even a short while, whether he'd had an apartment in Latveria or just bunked down in a barracks somewhere with Lukin's other private soldiers. But it was perhaps too soon to ask that question, especially because she had the suspicion that the answer was no. 

She went home after putting the milk in the fridge, pointing out that she had to do the same for herself back in Manhattan. James let her go with a nod and a thank you, sincere and yet very clearly saying far less than he meant. 

Her own apartment was elegant and not nearly as inviting or personal as Steve's. She'd gotten used to having a fixed address, but she'd never really nourished the idea of a _home_. Everything that was meaningful to her could be tucked into a bag and carried off at a moment's notice in case of fire or assassins. There was nothing anyone, friend or foe, could find out in the open that could hurt her, emotionally or politically or otherwise. She wished she didn't have to live this way -- it wasn't necessary for security reasons, but the alternative made her too uncomfortable. It made her feel vulnerable to have things that mattered to her on display, even to people she'd welcomed in to her life. Which was why she'd wondered about James. Once upon a time, he'd had a home, with Steve; Steve had told stories of their attempts at domesticity, how they'd both been kind of messy but prone to fits of cleanliness and how he would iron but James would mend and how they'd lived around and with each other. James could draw on that, at least, when he was ready. Natasha had never had a home, never had a partner in the enterprise of _living_ , and wasn't sure she knew how to do it by herself. 

She went to bed early and got up late, exhausted for far more reasons than her itinerant body clock, which was more or less adjusted to North America. 

Tapper called her mid-morning and told her that FININT had been plowing through Kronas's records and Lukin's bank accounts and they'd found one of his slush funds, one unaffiliated with the accounts Lukin used to buy things for Doom. And what they'd found therein were transfers to accounts that were already on SHIELD's watchlist because they belonged to HYDRA. 

"Can you call Barnes and get him to come in, or at least call in?" Tapper asked her. "The HYDRA task force people have a billion questions about Lukin's connections that they apparently didn't already ask him."

"You have the number to Steve's landline," Natasha pointed out. 

"He's not answering it," Tapper replied, frustrated. "And he doesn't have a cell phone on file. I presume you have means of reaching him, so... please?"

James had a cell phone, or, rather, multiple cell phones. He used disposable ones and then threw them away. She promised Tapper she would get James in touch. 

When she called him, he was out buying running shoes. She passed on the request and didn't offer to accompany him, although she phrased things so that he could ask without it being readable as another confession. 

"They're going to insist on issuing you a phone," she warned. "Don't tell them you don't need one. Just tell them that Tony's giving you one."

James chuckled, understanding. SHIELD would not miss the opportunity to bug him or otherwise track him. "Is he?"

"If you let him play with your arm again, he'll give you his firstborn," Natasha assured. "But he'll cough up the phone. He gave the rest of us new Starkphones because he didn't want SHIELD listening in when he called us." 

"I don't think I want to fight Pepper about the baby," James replied. "But I'll take the phone if it's offered."

He didn't ask for her to come with him and, in fact, he scoffed at her asking if he needed directions. "The map of Manhattan hasn't changed since the last time I lived here." 

Clint called in the evening to tell her that he was getting sent to Egypt again and it was all her fault. 

"Actually, it's Barnes's fault," Clint amended. "He's the one who told them that Lukin had to shift his operations to Alex after the mess at Gioa Tauro. Which was also his fault because he blew the place -- and me -- to kingdom come." 

Natasha smiled as she surfed through the dinner options on Seamless. "If it makes you feel better, I think he's paying for it today," she told him. "He got called in to talk to the HYDRA analysts."

Clint made a noise of sympathy. "Harsh," he agreed. "But the fucker did put me in the hospital for almost a month. How is he, by the way?"

"He sounded better," she answered, debating between Afghani and Korean. "Hard to tell how much is bravado over the phone."

"I like him," Clint offered. "He's seriously fucked in the head, but when he's got that under control, you can start to see why Steve hung out with the guy."

The rest of the evening was spent doing some contact massaging and maintenance work. And breaking up with the guy she'd been seeing casually for the last several months. He'd been accepting of her erratic schedule -- she'd told him that she was a pilot for a private jet company -- and he'd been careful not to make more of their relationship than it was. When he asked why, she said that an old boyfriend had moved back to town and she wanted to see where it went. Which wasn't the truth; she was ending the relationship because she knew she was going to be away far more than even a pilot would be able to justify and while both the undemanding companionship and the sex were enjoyable, the pressure of maintaining a cover under stress would take that joy away. If there were other reasons, some that might have glancingly grazed that truth, she would consider them at a later date. 


	8. Chapter 8

"What the _fuck_ , Tony? You're supposed to be a fucking engineer! Recognize the fucking angles!" 

Natasha couldn't see either Clint or Tony to know what might have happened; last she'd had visual on either, Tony had been hovering over Dundas Square and Clint was climbing the trestle on top of the H&M. But that had been at least twenty minutes ago and she'd stopped paying active attention to the fight on Yonge Street once she'd left it behind to concentrate on keeping the battlefield contained indoors. 

Arthur Parks, a body-modification freak SHIELD had been keeping an eye on since he'd been discovered while they had been looking for George Tarleton, had turned up at lunchtime with a trolley car full of minions and a bunch of new abilities and was currently making a mess of the otherwise spotless Toronto streets. 

Parks was calling himself the Living Laser, which wasn't really that true because he was still at least partially flesh and blood beyond whatever he'd done to himself to be able to shoot laser blasts out of his hands and absorb all kinds of energy, but he was still doing a significant amount of damage to people and property. The minions were all wearing modified HYDRA uniforms that had mirrors attached to them, which had been funny when they had simply looked like disco balls with legs, but significantly less so once Parks had started using them to deflect and reflect his laser blasts for maximum carnage. 

A handful of minions had done a runner once the Hulk had gotten involved and Natasha was part of the posse chasing them down inside the Eaton Centre mall area. She was inside the Sears, where three had gone in (that they knew about). She'd found one and dropped him with a kick to the head by housewares, but numbers two and three were playing hide-and-seek inside the store, which had thankfully been evacuated along with the rest of the area before the Avengers had even crossed the border into Canada.

The first mission for the team since Captain America's death was in Toronto; the papers would probably have a field day with that. Especially because Cap's absence was being felt so very acutely and there was going to be no hiding the team's problems and mishaps. 

"Still yourself, Hawkeye," Thor was saying, a touch of worry coloring his royal command and Natasha wondered what the hell had happened. "Let me return you to the ground so that you do not worsen the injury."

This wouldn't be the first screw-up of the afternoon that had resulted in damage, personnel or property-wise. The Cap-less Avengers were proving to be chaotic without a tactical commander, each of them ignoring the other's orders, simultaneously stepping on each other's toes and leaving each other vulnerable. Tony had appointed himself leader, which might have worked in a different scenario, but he was having trouble here. He was a better fighter than most people, even within SHIELD, generally gave him credit for being, but he was still used to fighting alone and he was having difficulty being part of the action while still coordinating everyone else's moves. Steve had been brilliant at that, of course, able to see the entire battlefield and anticipate how it would change even while he was down in the trenches. Tony, up on high, had started off well with the initial assignments, but he'd quickly gotten overwhelmed as the fluid nature of the fight took over and things had been falling apart since. Thor was bridling, the Hulk was essentially out of control, and now Clint had gotten hurt badly enough to require an evac from his position and he wasn't even griping about that, which Natasha knew wasn't good. 

"Widow, are you still in the Sears?" Corrales asked. His team had been assigned to accompany the Avengers, as per usual, but while they'd originally been told to hang back and let the local law enforcement take lead, the blundering of the Avengers had forced them away from the sidelines. 

"Affirmative, Commander," she replied, moving past a horrifying display of tiny pink t-shirts that proclaimed the wearers ready for love. "I'm hunting in the children's section. Two tangos of the mirror-ball kind." 

"You will perhaps be unsurprised to know that we have found your quarry in the place where many better men have gotten into trouble," Corrales told her, humor in his voice. "Ladies lingerie. Casimir also found himself a flattering green silk number that really brings out his eyes, by the way."

Natasha smiled, then sobered. "Any idea of what happened to Hawkeye?"

Corrales might not have seen anything, either, but he was carrying more radios than she was and would be in contact with someone who had. 

"Negatory on the how," Corrales answered after a moment. "But he was bleeding pretty badly from his left arm when Thor brought him in. He might want to reconsider the sleeveless look." 

It took the better part of two hours to finish up; Parks ended up being taken out by an OPP SWAT sniper because none of the Avengers could get an effective shot in, especially with Clint out of the fight. Natasha thought Steve would have handled the final hour far differently -- _she_ would have handled it far differently -- but there would have been little point in saying so at the time because not enough important people would have listened. She thought Steve would have gotten Tony on Hulk containment and left Thor to try his hammer on Parks instead of the other way around; she didn't know if it was because Tony couldn't bear to take himself away from the big fight or because he couldn't see that Mjolnir was the Avengers' last effective weapon against a guy effectively immune to energy-based attacks. 

The after-action reports for this were going to be brutal. As it was, the ride back to the Helicarrier was tense and silent. Clint was with them, arm wrapped heavily and protected by a sling; underneath the bandages was a bloody, charred gouge in his forearm that he'd ruefully suggested would finally allow him to take the vacation he should have been on last month. 

Corrales took charge of depositing Parks's body in the morgue and his minions in the brig, leaving the Avengers to follow Tapper to Fury's office for what was going to be an ugly sit-down. Natasha accepted it as a necessary consequence of a bad performance, but she still resented being publicly hauled in to the principal's office like an errant schoolchild when there was nothing to be gained but Fury getting his frustration out. For her, embarrassment had always been an excellent corrective and she was well aware of how humiliating this afternoon's activities had been. 

"What am I going to do when there's a real threat?" Fury asked, glaring at all of them in turn. He had watched the entire affair on video as it had happened, listening to their comms and following along as things went from bad to worse. "You people would have trouble crossing the street through the Mummers' Parade."

Fury wasn't irate because they'd made a mess of things -- at least he wasn't irate about only that. He was angry that they'd adjusted so poorly to Steve's absence in ways he considered to have been avoidable. 

"I understood that the first time out without Cap was going to be a goat rodeo," he told them. "That's why I called you in for this when Corrales could have handled it on his own with some extra DAS support. I wanted you to work the kinks out of the new system before it became a matter of life or death. But I apparently was giving you too much credit because _there was no new system_.

"Moving forward without Cap is going to be a work in progress. But that means you have to actually work at it. And instead of doing that, instead of working together and using what Cap taught you about functioning as a team, you all acted like lone wolves coincidentally in the same place fighting the same bad guy."

Tony started to say something but Fury cut him off. "You want credit for trying to take charge, Stark? Just wait until tomorrow's headlines to see what everyone thinks of that. You consistently made poor tactical choices and then your teammates made it worse by doing whatever the fuck they wanted. This was a shitshow from beginning to end. Nobody gets a gold star for _trying_."

Fury gestured at the wall of monitors, each one showing video of the battle in Toronto. "I will bring in someone else to run you if I have to. War Machine or someone else with battlefield experience because This. Was. Unacceptable." 

"Why don't you just ask Barnes?" Clint, veteran of more than fifteen years of professional soldiering, suggested in an ugly tone. Natasha chalked that up to the painkillers talking because Clint usually filtered better than that. 

"Don't think I haven't considered it," Fury bit back and Natasha exhaled quietly in relief because clearly Fury recognized it, too. Clint and Fury had known each other the longest out of anyone at SHIELD, had known each other before Fury had even taken over SHIELD, and they had a respect for each other that bore the depth of having been colleagues. But when they aired it out in public, it got uglier faster than with anyone else, even Tony and his ability to piss people off and then escalate it. 

After they were released from Fury's office, Natasha followed Clint down to the team room so that she could shower and change before getting a lift back down to Manhattan. Tony and Thor had flown off on their own without so much as a goodbye and Bruce had muttered something about his lab before, too, going his own way. 

"I don't need a babysitter," Clint groused as she got into the elevator with him. 

"If you're picking fights with Fury in front of an audience, you absolutely do," Natasha replied easily, reaching over in front of him to hit the button for the proper floor because Clint had apparently forgotten he was supposed to. She gave him a pointed look and he frowned. "But I'm not interested in the job."

Clint ended up needing help getting dressed because his bandages restricted his arm movement so severely; Natasha offered to go get Corrales or Bruce or someone else male, but Clint just rolled his eyes and gave her the 'get on with it' hand gesture. 

It was evening by the time they got dropped off at 44th Street, so they ended up getting dinner together in Hell's Kitchen. 

"What's the word on our Little House on the Prairie?" Clint asked when they were seated in the corner of their preferred Vietnamese place. "Not that I won't be finding out in person starting this week because I am sure as shit not convalescing here."

Steve was off the respirator as of last week and the latest tests -- the safe house had its own MRI and CT scanners -- had shown excellent improvement on the skull fractures and remarkable progress by the brain itself, although the baseline for that had been so very low because the original damage had been so profound. 

"James said that Peggy said that the neurologists are cautiously willing to use the word 'when' instead of 'if' he wakes up," Natasha reported after the waiter had taken their order. "But they won't commit to a time frame or even guess about what we'll get when he opens his eyes."

James spoke to Peggy almost daily after an initial reluctance; Peggy had started leaving rude voicemails when James had dodged the first few calls. Natasha had found out from Fury, however, that James also talked to Steve, Peggy putting the phone on speaker by his ear, because it had been suggested that Steve hearing a familiar voice might help. 

"Is Barnes around this weekend?"

"Probably not," Natasha replied. In the three weeks since they'd come back to New York, James had more or less kept to a schedule: he had mandatory days at 44th Street on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but then he would frequently disappear for a few days at a time, never providing details, just promising Natasha (who in turn had passed on that promise to Fury) that he would return and that he was not continuing his personal revenge crusade. He'd gone out to Wyoming by himself last weekend, but otherwise Natasha had no idea where he was going or what he was doing while he was gone. They had very few common contacts outside of the weaponeers and other black market logistics specialists; Natasha's network had been born in her Red Room days, but James's seemed to have been cultivated during his years working for Lukin out of Latveria. 

Fury was not happy with James's "lost weekends," but James was apparently returning with useful intelligence product and he was showing up to his therapy appointments -- James had surprised her by not fighting the requirement that he see a shrink twice a week -- and so Fury, ever the pragmatist when it came to choosing his battles, had decided not to choose this one. 

James didn't tell her much about what went on in the therapy sessions, not that she'd expected him to or that she even asked, but he seemed to be getting something out of it. He was less fragile and more animated than he'd been when she'd first brought him in, although he was still very reserved and so very weighed down by the guilt of what he'd done as the Winter Soldier. But he was better, by any metric anyone chose to use. He smiled more, showed more emotion in general, and Natasha could see the rough shape of the _person_ James Barnes could eventually be, even if the lines were sometimes still a little blurry. She thought James could see it too, which was more important. 

"Gonna have to cancel the trip to Mattituck," Clint sighed, looking at his sling. Clint had taken James out there the past two Wednesdays for long-range shooting since neither of them believed in the virtual reality set-up at 44th Street. James had gotten range privileges after his first therapy session ("I'm apparently the gun-safe kind of crazy"), although he tended to use them at odd hours to minimize the audience. "We were going to play hide-and-seek again."

"He can go on his own if he wants," she pointed out, cutting the summer rolls in half because while Clint could use his chopsticks one-handed, other tasks were going to be beyond him. "Or would that be cheating on you?"

"He has his own fan club out there already," Clint scoffed, dipping his summer roll in sauce. "If the sniper thing wasn't enough, they've just discovered how much he likes knives."

James's knife skills were extraordinary, moreso even than his marksmanship because while there were many skilled fighters for whom a knife at close range was better than a gun, Clint and Natasha (and Steve) included, the list of people for whom a knife was sufficient outside that small radius was very short indeed. Natasha had trained with him twice since he'd come to New York and she'd been a little surprised -- and a lot humbled -- at how much better he was at hand-to-hand than she remembered him being. Better than her, she knew, but it was the degree of superiority that had been remarkable. Instead of the grueling workout she'd expected, the way it had been with Steve once she'd goaded him enough to stop holding back, it had almost immediately turned into something akin to what they'd looked like once upon a time, when she'd been a Red Room trainee and he her tutor. Something he'd noticed, too, and she'd seen in his eyes that he was thinking about where _that_ had led, a good memory matched up with the present moment of her pinned beneath him and breathing hard. Until the movie in his mind had gotten to the point when they'd been discovered and she had watched the expression on his face, inches above hers, shutter and close and he'd rolled away suddenly and sat up and not looked at her at all. 

Clint was looking at her expectantly and she must have missed what he'd said. "I'm the one who's supposed to be spacing," he said. "You got something you wanna talk about?"

She shook her head no and Clint frowned, not backing down. "You two okay?"

"We're fine," she quickly assured, which got her an even more incredulous look from Clint. "No, really. We're fine. He's still figuring out who he is and that's what he's supposed to be doing. It's what Steve wanted for him, it's what Fury and Peggy wanted me to set him up to do, and, most importantly, it's what _he_ wants."

"You sure that's all he wants?" Clint asked and she narrowed her eyes at him for being vulgar. "A _friend_ , Natochka. He might want a friend."

Natasha took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "I think we might have too much history for me to be that for him."

James was never unhappy to see her, would initiate contact without it being because he needed something from her, but it was very obvious, at least to her, that their past was a complication to his present and maybe his future. He was Bucky Barnes first to everyone else but her and they both knew that she would always see the Winter Soldier in him. 

Clint shook his head and sighed. "You're a little ridiculous, you know? I still have the scars from _our_ history and we get on just fine."

Natasha had stabbed him in the thigh the first time they'd met. "You shot me with an arrow in the same spot," she reminded him. "We were even before we ever began."

This earned her an eyeroll. "He came to _you_ , Nat. He could have found anyone. He could have been a walk-in at 44th Street. That's not nothing and you, of all people, know that."

Once upon a time, when Natasha had chosen to defect, she'd gone to Clint when she could have shown up anywhere and presented herself to anyone. She could have rung Fury's doorbell at his apartment in DC, but instead she had gone for shakshuka with Clint in Tel Aviv and let him finally bring her in. 

"It's not nothing," she agreed. "But I'm not sure what it is."

The following morning, Clint began his medical leave, which meant that Natasha was the only one dragged in on a Saturday to sit with the Russia Desk and watch the press conference by the Moscow police explaining how hard they were going to work to bring the perpetrators of this terrible crime to justice. The terrible crime in question was a half-dozen murder victims left in front of police stations with notes attached to them saying that they were Chinese spies. One of the ultra-nationalist groups was already taking credit, but coming after three weeks of high tension between Russia and China, that might not be sufficient to stave off further escalation. 

Russia had thus far been unable to convince anyone that they had had nothing to do with the bombings in China (the embassy and consulate were technically Chinese soil despite the Russian postal addresses) and that had been before the footage had gotten out. The videos, of generally good quality, had shown clearly Russian-looking men and women -- not Uighers or Tibetans or any other aggrieved non-Han Chinese minority, as the Russians had suggested -- with what might very well have been the bomb materials, which in turn had been proven to be Russian military-issue. The emplacement methods were all professional, as were the bomb designs. The Kremlin was running out of alternate explanations and then Beijing revealed that they had recently turned down a Russian proposal for joint efforts on several sensitive foreign policy fronts, from Sea of Japan control to the monitoring of their restive Muslim populations. 

If this was Lukin's doing, it was turning into a masterstroke. There were protests in the streets of Vladivostok, which had been living under a curfew along with most of the larger cities in Primorye, and smaller demonstrations in Moscow. The Chinese revelations of the Russian proposals had required international responses from governments and NGOs alike. Putin was scrambling. 

There was no evidence of Lukin's hand in anything, however, although that did not discredit Natasha's suggestion. To a cynic, this looked exactly like the frame-up the Russians were insisting it was, which meant that the question was not what the Russians thought they were up to, but who was the one really pulling the strings. 

James called her on Monday evening; he didn't say where he'd been, just asked about the adventure in Toronto and if she was okay. She told him the sordid details, right down to Clint's sarcastic suggestion of him as the new leader of the Avengers. 

James's response was a hilariously blasphemous Russian expression. "What does he want me to do, wear Steve's uniform and call myself Sergeant America?" 

"I wouldn't repeat that in Fury's earshot," she told him. "Another screw-up on our part and he'll be getting the shield flown in from Wyoming and asking you about your throwing arm."

Steve's shield was currently hanging on a hook over his bed; a model was on display at the Smithsonian, although it was being billed as the real thing. 

"Speaking of, I wonder if I should hold off on calling Stark about the arm," James mused. "I'm supposed to go over there tomorrow after I'm done getting my head shrunk. But I'll hold off if he's still sore."

Tony had been working on a prototype for a new arm for James since the dinner party. James -- and Clint -- had started making jokes about what the new one would do, especially after Tony hadn't realized James had been kidding about an EMP pulse and actually incorporated one. Tony had thankfully realized what they were doing before the sex toy phase began, although Natasha didn't think the magic fingers cracks were ever actually going to go away. 

"Is it ready?" she asked, surprised. "And no, don't hold off. Tony's happier when he's tinkering and he's historically been pretty unbothered by Fury pointing out his inadequacies."

Which was absolutely the truth, but she did wonder about now, when Fury pointing out Tony's failures could be interpreted as Tony letting Steve down. If Tony went down that path, then even the thrill of a new toy would not be enough to dull that blow. 

"It's not ready," James answered. "It's more of a fitting, I guess you'd say. The socket in my shoulder isn't anything like how Stark Industries' prosthetics interface, apparently, so he's improvising."

The arm was further along than either of them thought; the following week, Tony sent her a photo of James, naked from the waist up with two arms of matching color and appearance. She ignored the lascivious note attached to it and replied that it was looking good. 

"But what about the arm?" was Tony's reply. 

Natasha very carefully took a photo of her raised middle finger and sent it back to him. Which in turn was just an invite for magic fingers jokes. She quit while she was behind. 

James asked her to come along on his first test drive of the arm outside the lab. She agreed, then asked what he had in mind. Coney Island was the answer, which surprised her a little because James hadn't been all that interested in exploring anything too closely tied to his past life, his "first stint" as Bucky Barnes. He hadn't gone back to his old neighborhood as far as she knew, even though it was a short distance away from Steve's apartment, and had thrown away the picture someone had given him of the James Barnes School (which went by PS 328, much to his relief; the Steve Rogers School was closer to Red Hook but still nowhere either of them would have attended; their actual schools hadn't changed names since they'd been pupils). 

Nonetheless, she showed up at the apartment Saturday morning and away they went. James was wearing a Brooklyn Dodgers short-sleeved t-shirt and cargo shorts and sunglasses and sneakers and he looked so very _American_ in a way he perhaps hadn't before. It had nothing to do with the arm per se, just that he was no longer working so hard to hide himself in plain sight and the openness changed everything. This was Bucky Barnes, she realized, or as close to it as he could get. 

James was a little wary of the Cyclone -- "have they changed the wood planks since 1943?" -- and utterly stupefied at the $9 price tag, but made them ride it anyway. It was Natasha's first roller coaster, she admitted, which would have surprised anyone but James, who'd simply replied that it was the only one he'd ever been on, either.

Most of the rest of Coney Island's amusements were a disappointment to him; they were new, something called Luna Park, and while a great deal of effort had been made to make it look traditional and organic with what had come before, it felt a little fake. 

They ended up walking on the boardwalk toward Brighton Beach, which she warned him was now nicknamed Little Odessa, passing the baseball park and the aquarium, both of which were new to James, although he said that he'd gone to the aquarium when it had still been in Manhattan. 

The arm, the actual reason for the trip, had thus far performed reasonably well. Up close, it really did look real. It matched the rest of his skin tone -- Tony had said that it would even tan a little -- and it had hair and felt, when Natasha touched it, like real skin, albeit skin that needed some moisturizer. James twitched when she touched it, when anything touched it, because he wasn't used to getting sensory input from his left arm. 

"It's really weird," he admitted when she asked him what it felt like. "I guess it feels like it's supposed to, but... I get phantom pains, sometimes. Phantom feedback, like the real thing's still there. And it doesn't feel like _that_."

There were glitches, of course, because this was still a work in progress. Mostly it was James not being able to do what he wanted with the arm, like when he'd dropped the soda he'd been holding when they'd gotten fries at Nathan's, his only other nostalgia-fueled requirement. But there were also moments of real pain, bad enough to make his eyes water and Natasha suggest that they take the arm off, at least for a while. He refused and she didn't press, but she did get a little more vigilant about keeping them out of crowds because at least twice it had been from incidental contact. 

Despite that, they ended up at Netcost, where they were going to get bumped because Russians were no better driving shopping carts than cars. She picked up a basket on the way in and James did not, saying that he didn't think he really wanted anything. But then he co-opted a corner of her basket and then the pile got high enough to topple over on to her selections, so she sent him back to get his own. He got one of the wheeled kind so that he didn't have to hold it in his left hand. 

Natasha wasn't often nostalgic for Russian life, but there was something to be said for comfort food. In her earliest memories, before the worst of Department X and the Red Room's training began, there had been babushka-clad women with hot food and warm smiles and as much as she loved her bibimbap now, there would always be a place for veal pelmeni and smoked fish and colorfully-wrapped chocolates with silly names. James's purchases were presumably more straightforwardly about preferences than past history, but she didn't ask because she didn't want to spoil what had turned out to be a fun day and instead restricted her comments to joking about the large container of cornichons. She bought a bag of barberry caramels and a couple of packets of wafer cookies to send to Clint. 

They parted on the subway, James surprising her with a kiss on the cheek after thanking her for the day. There was an email from Sonia when she checked her messages after getting home, inviting her to visit for a few days of sun and sea and freedom from the city. It wasn't an idle offer and Natasha only hesitated for a moment before replying back in the affirmative and asking if she could bring a friend. 


	9. Chapter 9

"When you said a friend, I was expecting someone a little shorter and carrying a bow," Sonia said with a laugh as she greeted Natasha and James. "Maybe someone with an eyepatch if I were a very good girl. But this? This is a true surprise. And a good one. Welcome to my home, James..." she trailed off, a prompt for the patronymic.

"Georgievich," he supplied. 

"Georgievich," she repeated with a nod, clasping his shoulders to kiss his cheeks and then looking down at his left arm, which was not confusable with flesh and blood in such a context despite its appearance.

"But call me Bucky, please."

Sonia led them through the house and up the stairs, pausing to delicately verify that they wanted separate bedrooms before exhorting them to refresh themselves and join her on the back balcony when they were ready.

James had been surprised when she'd asked if he wanted to go to Croatia; he remembered Sonia from their Red Room days, but hadn't realized she'd become an intelligence broker. "Probably for the best," he'd said. "What Lukin doesn't know doesn't hurt her."

Natasha took her time in the shower washing the journey from her skin before changing into a long, flowing sundress and draping herself in a light shawl. When she went back downstairs, James was already there; she could hear him and Sonia chatting politely about the villa and life in Croatia and how the Slavs did things differently -- and generally better -- when it came to living a relaxed life. It was odd to hear him speaking Russian and then she wondered why that was and when that had happened.

James stood when she came out on to the balcony, waiting for her to sit before he did. He had the same old-fashioned manners as Steve did and applied them with the same casual grace that made it charming and not artful or pretentious in modern times. But, unlike Steve, his gentlemanly efforts came with a side order of straight-up male; she could see his appreciation of her choice of dress because he wasn't hiding it. It was, however, discreet enough to be well on the good side of flattering.

Over wine and mezze and fresh breads, they talk about current events, mostly Putin's efforts to get Russia's fat out of the fryer. Sonia took it as a given that the Russians were being set up and that Lukin was behind it.

"Actually, that is what I asked you here to talk about," Sonia said, passing around a plate of grape leaves stuffed with rice and mint and meat. "I was planning to save it until tomorrow because you've traveled all day and it's a conversation that can't be shortened to a few hours. But here is the tease: Lukin's ties to HYDRA go deeper than anyone realizes."

Natasha thought back to the secret slush fund SHIELD had found, the one he'd been siphoning money to HYDRA with. "We're already aware that it goes further than buying up their surplus AIM stock."

James had been swirling a piece of pita through the bowl of muhammara, but froze. "He's running the whole damned thing, isn't he?"

Sonia laughed delightedly as Natasha just tilted her head in question. "How would he manage to be the Supreme HYDRA from the outskirts of Doomstadt?"

"He doesn't run everything past the Baron," James pointed out, "What Doom does know about his dealings with HYDRA is sanctioned by him. He'd never think that Lukin would do more behind his back. It would be a violation of the good manners a guest shows his host."

From his tone, Natasha guessed that that kind of courtliness was important to Doom, but she'd seen a different side of it as his prisoner. "I only saw how Latveria treats their guests," she said, stabbing a lamb kibbeh with her fork. "I'd probably run HYDRA, too, after that."

"You weren't a guest," Sonia chided lightly with a smile. "You were a spy."

Sonia explained that she had no way of knowing when Lukin had first decided to take over HYDRA for himself, but he most certainly had plans to use them against Putin well before Schmidt was captured at Minyar.

"HYDRA was making great inroads into Russia, especially in the Urals and points east," Sonia reminded them. "They were already destabilizing Putin without him needing to do a thing. Putin gave them Minyar, the Monster Factory itself, to keep them from toppling him entirely. Sending you in, Bucky, was always about determining HYDRA's strength. Lukin initially just wanted your assessment of their organization and its capacity, especially inside Russia."

James nodded. Natasha knew he'd told SHIELD this, that he'd been sent to the vor in St. Petersburg because Lukin knew that that would give James a good vantage point to observe. And he did, sending back reports to Lukin, who presumably gave updates to Doom. 

"What I didn't understand until I found out who you really were, what I don't think anyone in Moscow understands yet, is what else Lukin had in mind," Sonia went on, pausing to refresh everyone's wine glass. "He wanted you discovered."

James sat back a little. His reaction to people mentioning his actions as the Winter Soldier tended to vary, but on the whole he handled them with equanimity; he had had a part in those actions and owned them, more than he should. Reactions to incidents that were clear manipulations of his true identity, people playing on the knowledge that he'd really been James Barnes, never went well because that meant he'd been an ignorant party, a _victim_ , and he didn't want to be that at all. No matter what the truth actually was.  "By whom?" 

"I had thought it was Moscow," Sonia answered, sipping from her glass. "But I now think it was SHIELD."

Natasha stopped chasing the chick peas on her plate. "To what end?"

Sonia picked up a stuffed olive and popped it into her mouth. "To rid himself of a future problem: Victor von Doom."

When both Natasha and James reacted with surprise, she explained. Doom had indeed been nothing but helpful, but he had been helpful with conditions and within boundaries that Lukin was going to have to push past to have success in Russia.

"He can't become the new Tsar without HYDRA, he can't use HYDRA without incurring Doom's wrath, and he can't afford to have Latveria as an enemy. Latveria is too important financially to Lukin personally and will only be more so when he's Tsar Aleksander, since he won't be able to use London the way Putin is."

"And killing Doom won't turn Latveria into an enemy?" Natasha asked skeptically. 

"It depends on how Doom dies," James, master of the murder-by-misadventure-and-natural-causes answered sourly. 

Sonia nodded. "Done properly, the grieving Valeria will turn to the most powerful man left in Latveria, her son's godfather, Aleksander Lukin, for protection and advice while she is Baroness Regent. Sasha can continue his program for Russia with impunity and without the subterfuge of hiding his HYDRA connections from Victor. He can then return to Russia as the prodigal son, leaving a grateful young Baron Ondrej on the throne in Doomstadt and securing Russia's favor in Latveria."

Which made its own beautiful sense, Natasha had to admit. 

"How does this tie in to exposing me?" James asked. He sounded like he thought he had the answer, but wanted verification. Natasha knew he'd been working with the SHIELD analysts to gain a better context for his actions as the Winter Soldier -- it wasn't as if Lukin had explained things to him beyond what was task-essential, which had rarely been the bigger picture. But Sonia had a different frame of reference than the SHIELD analysts, had firsthand knowledge of some things and excellent resources for the rest. 

"SHIELD already wanted to talk to you," Sonia reminded him. "Even before they realized that you were the Winter Soldier, before they accepted that the Winter Soldier was real, let alone that you are who who are. Nicholas Fury does not like being taken for a fool and you did that, quite completely." 

Sonia gestured to Natasha with a hand flourish. James had convinced SHIELD she'd betrayed them, destroying months of work, years of interagency and international relations, and the Avengers as a bonus. 

"SHIELD finding out who you really were would have drawn their undivided attention," Sonia went on. "And all roads would have led, sooner or later, to Doomstadt. As they did."

Natasha thought back to those months after Minyar, after Schmidt gave them the rest of the story, the missing pieces that traced the Winter Soldier back to a valley in Occupied Europe and the heart of the Howling Commandos. It was hard to imagine that as being part of a plan, or at least part of Lukin's plan, since Schmidt had clearly been hoping to hurt Steve, which he did, very deeply. There had been no way for Lukin to know that Schmidt would get captured at Minyar, that he would survive the assault at all. But it might not have mattered if Schmidt had survived if they had gotten those missing pieces from somewhere else; Natasha would have been able to give them enough to start the dominoes falling. Steve, when confronted by those images of Yasha Yachmenev wearing Bucky Barnes's face, would have been goaded into action just the same even if he hadn't known that Yasha really was Bucky and not a clone. 

"Everything that did happen, Lukin wanted to happen," Sonia continued. "Or at least was content to let happen. Right up until Captain America used the alien device to restore your memories. _That_ he hadn't planned for; he had much more use of you."

James's expression was blank, but Natasha could see the anger he was trying so hard to keep inside. 

"What about his control of HYDRA?" Natasha asked, hoping it wasn't too obvious a change of topic. 

Sonia smiled to indicate that it had been, but she was willing to go with it. 

SHIELD had been playing whack-a-mole with HYDRA since Minyar. Like al-Qaeda, just because the boss wasn't in a position to be issuing orders didn't mean they were not a threat and not still well-organized and funded. It was still like trying to nail jello to the wall, as it had been when Schmidt had been in control. Lukin wouldn't be the first pretender to the throne since Schmidt, but they had mostly been regional and occasionally factional, not unlike the Roman Empire at various points and very much like HYDRA after the '51 raids, just with bigger stakes. There had been no one who could reasonably claim global command and control of HYDRA until now, although Sonia was not ready to say that Lukin was in fact in such a position now.

Lukin definitely had the Russian elements lined up, which wasn't that much of a surprise, although Sonia warned them that it was probably a little better armed than either SHIELD or Putin thought because SHIELD had not picked up HYDRA's toys fast enough after the battle. 

"Believe me, we are well aware," Natasha assured sourly. The warehouse James had used to bring her to Romania was only one of many. Steve had and Clint still occasionally was dragooned into staging raids on depots throughout the world. 

"They're also far better politically and socially connected than Putin thinks," Sonia went on, acknowledging Natasha with a nod. HYDRA had become the alternate of choice to Putin's authoritarianism, despite the fact that HYDRA was itself an authoritarian entity. "Some people think they'll be part of the ruling class because HYDRA preaches meritocracy, but most of them understand it's the Soviets with a new uniform and we're far enough from the fall of the Wall that the Communists don't seem so bad in hindsight."

Lukin also had most of Europe's HYDRA elements in part or in whole as well as some of the key African locations, including Guinea-Bissau, which had recovered completely from SHIELD's razing of it after the extraction of their mole, Miranda Tung. Sonia explained that Lukin was using his old network of protégés and contacts to serve as lieutenants, putting them in "advisory" positions in the regional power centers and then turning that power from advisory to real.

"You would have been the regional director for Russia, the most important position," Sonia told James.

"Not the US?" he asked, surprised.

Natasha was curious, too, because the Winter Soldier's whole raison d'etre had been his ability to pass as American. 

No, Sonia confirmed. Definitely Russia. 

"Afraid I'd go native?" James asked. Apparently that had been a real concern in the early days, during his first missions on US soil, and there had been one incident that had justified the fear, but James only remembered bits and pieces of it and, since he'd never been discovered by American authorities, there were no records to provide details. 

"Afraid you couldn't pass as native," Sonia replied and James reacted almost as if slapped. If Sonia saw it, she pretended not to. "And very afraid to put you so close to Fury, who wanted you strung up by your intestines. They're using an unknown face for North America."

There was more, including some speculation about other possible candidates for these directorships and who might have taken James's place as the Russian representative. but it was late, even if Natasha and James were still on North American time, and Sonia promised that they'd resume the discussion tomorrow. James was gracious and mannered as he thanked Sonia for the evening and gestured for Natasha to precede him upstairs, but he was quiet the following morning, letting Natasha ask most of the questions when they resumed their intelligence summit. 

Natasha passed on the important parts to Hill, since Fury was off in meetings, and suggested that rather than be sent back to New York directly, she and James get a couple of days in Paris. Hill thought she was angling for a paid vacation, but Natasha maintained that there was a likelihood that she, at least, was only going to be sent back to Europe to follow up on what Sonia had told them and, besides, both of them had a lot of contacts in town and it would provide easy access to London, which was crawling with useful Russians. 

"I think James can miss a playdate or two with the analysts," she said. Hill agreed, although she wasn't sure he should be missing too many playdates with his shrink. Nonetheless, they were given an itinerary that put them in Paris for four days. 

They left Croatia after another day with Sonia, whose hospitality seemed to stalemate against James's growing withdrawal. He was still sociable and even charming, but Natasha could see how much of an effort it was and how much of a shadow was growing over him once he thought nobody was looking. Maybe Hill had been right and keeping James away from his therapist an extra few days was not such a great plan, but she also wasn't sure that bringing him right back to New York was a good idea, either. She suspected that he was still upset about Sonia's unintentional confirmation of his worst fear: that he was too far gone, too damaged, to recover. How could he no longer pass as American unless there wasn't enough left of Bucky Barnes to save? 

That this was a fear of his was no secret and he didn't try to hide it. He hid behind it instead, forcing the people who cared about him -- and that included people like Fury who were acting for more impersonal reasons -- to drag him out from behind that rock. And the combined effort seemed to have been working; he had been getting more comfortable in Bucky's skin. But he'd also spent the last couple of months largely surrounded by people who saw the progress and had faith in its continuance. Sonia was someone outside that bubble, an informed observer whose knowledge of James's past as the Winter Soldier was more complete than his had been and she spoke with authority about Lukin and the Red Room in ways that he could not. Her casual comment -- and Natasha did not think that Sonia would ever intentionally wound him like that -- had been the damning he'd been waiting for. Because he didn't share anyone's faith in his ability to reclaim the life that had been taken away from him. 

Natasha couldn't give him that faith, could only show her own and hoped he recognized it as genuine and not a show for his benefit. He forgot her own past when it suited him, choosing to pretend that she didn't know from what she spoke of or that they weren't comparable at all. They weren't the same, she knew that, but the parts of them that were similar, she recognized those in him and that was what she spoke to, what she tried to reach. But the parts that weren't the same mattered, too. She'd dove into the pool of insecurity and doubt of her own volition when she'd defected and, even if she'd been unpleasantly surprised by the depth, she'd known what she was doing and why. James had been pushed in by Steve with the best of intentions but without checking to see if he still knew how to swim. 

Paris was busy, which she'd thought might have been a blessing, forcing James out of his head. They had a suite in Paris, two bedrooms and a living room, although it also came with angry phone calls from Fury. Fury wasn't pissed at them per se, more that they were the messengers of news he did not want to hear, and so Natasha let it roll off her back. 

They both had contacts in Paris, some of the same contacts even. But it would not be good to be seen together by them since nobody knew who the Winter Soldier was allied with these days, so they made their rounds separately during the day and night. Going back to being the Winter Soldier was not helping James's mood, although Natasha didn't realize to what degree (beyond being occasionally cranky and distant with her) until she got a call from an annoyed Peggy, who told her that James wasn't answering her calls. Which in turn meant that he hadn't spoken to Steve and, since there were more signs that he was responding to external stimuli, it was very important for Steve to hear James's voice right now. Natasha agreed and apologized to Peggy ("Tosh," was the sharp reply. "You are not his nursemaid.") and explained what she thought the problem was. 

Peggy didn't scoff at the notion that James was reeling from another "proof" that he was really just the Winter Soldier with a new name, thought it plausible and even likely, but she was still exasperated that he might actually believe it despite the evidence to the contrary. Natasha felt no shame in suggesting that Peggy might have more sway in convincing him, although Peggy had the grace to tell her that James had only listened to about a third of what she'd said back in the day and the ratio hadn't improved with time. 

They agreed that Peggy would call Natasha and she would do her best to get James on the line, but when it happened, it was not when or why either of them expected. 

After a morning of separate appointments, James and Natasha were in the Tuileries for a stroll and an exchange of notes when her phone rang. It was Peggy.

"He opened his eyes," Peggy told her before she could offer to pass the phone over. "Just for a few minutes and he was never fully awake, but they were open." 

Natasha felt her own eyes prick with tears. "That's..." she trailed off, unable to continue past the lump in her throat. 

"Indeed," Peggy agreed, sounding not unmoved herself. 

Natasha cleared her throat and called over to James, who'd put some distance between them once he'd realized who she was talking to. When he shook his head no, she repeated the request, and when he refused her a second time, she switched over to Russian and used much stronger language, drawing the attention of a passing tourist child whose mother dragged him away, aghast.

Rather than cause more of a scene, James came over and took the phone, a belligerent expression on his face and looking like he was about to tell Peggy off and hang up. But he didn't because Peggy didn't let him get a cross word in edgewise. 

Natasha could see his face and posture completely change the moment Peggy's words registered. He ended up not saying a word to Peggy until the end, when he got out a "yes, ma'am," in barely a whisper, and terminated the call, handing the phone back to Natasha and going to sit on a nearby bench, elbows on his knees and his head hanging down. 

Natasha followed him over, giving him a moment before reaching out to touch his hair, lightly enough that he could ignore it if he wanted to. But he didn't, instead raising his head and looking up, and she let her hand slide down to the side of his face. His eyes were wet, but he wasn't crying. He was smiling. 

"It's time to go home," she told him, rubbing his cheekbone with her thumb. He nodded. 

There wasn't a commercial flight to Denver before tomorrow, so the options were to wait in Paris or return to New York. Natasha chose to wait until tomorrow morning's flight, since going to New York would increase the likelihood of her getting sidetracked or shanghaied by SHIELD through simple proximity. And, more importantly, she didn't want anyone to have a chance to tell James no, he couldn't go directly to Wyoming without spending time in New York first. 

Bruce, Tony, and Clint -- who was still in Nebraska but would be heading over to the house shortly because it was still early morning there -- sent texts confirming they'd gotten the news. With nothing scheduled now that they were leaving, Natasha and James went out to dinner and if it wasn't quite celebratory, it was far less tense and uncomfortable than their previous meals in Paris. James's shadow wasn't gone -- it was never gone entirely -- but it wasn't as black as it had been before the phone call.

After dinner and a last patisserie visit, they were back in their suite when James's phone rang. He looked at his watch before seeing the blocked caller ID that probably meant it was Peggy.

"I'd better take this," he said, getting up off the couch he'd been sprawled on and going into his bedroom, closing the door.

Natasha couldn't make out the words, but she could tell that he was on the phone for a while, long enough that he was probably making up for lost time with Steve.

By the time they landed in Denver, Steve had woken up again, this time for about five minutes. He was still not fully alert, nor was he trying to communicate. Peggy said that he didn't recognize his surroundings, which made sense, but he also didn't seem to recognize her or Clint as he paid them no more attention than anyone or anything else he saw. He did not seem interested in the shield, either, when Clint had gotten it down off the hook. She kept her voice steady as she reported this, but Natasha didn't have to imagine the fear that the worst had come to pass, that the Steve they were getting back was nowhere close to the one they'd lost. 

"He's responding to noise and touch," Natasha told James as they drove away from the airport. "And he was tracking motion. But that's it right now. The neurologists showed up about an hour ago and then he's going to get more scans."

When they got to the house, the mood was upbeat on the whole, less than giddy but at least up to 'cautiously optimistic.' Steve was still getting the MRI done because he had moved around too much the first time.

"It's a pain in the ass because they can't tape him down tight enough that he won't move and they can't just tell him not to, although they're trying," Clint explained with a shrug, one hardly affected by the still-bandaged wound on his arm. "But it's a good problem, you know?"

With nothing to do but wait, Natasha and James sat in the backyard, which now had an umbrella-covered table and comfortable chairs, and told Clint and Peggy what they'd learned from Sonia. 

"It's appropriately Byzantine for an old cold warrior like Lukin," Peggy chuckled darkly. "As an even older cold warrior, I have to appreciate it. But I really prefer the simpler approach. Fewer moving parts. Style points count for nothing if things fall through."

They were told when Steve was returned to his room. Peggy gestured for them to go ahead without her. "I've been indoors all day and now that it's not a thousand degrees out, I'm going to enjoy it for a bit." 

"She's exhausted," Clint confided as they went back inside. "And we can't exactly tell her to go take a nap, not now."

Steve's room was already crowded with medical personnel, so Clint begged off and said he'd come back when he was less underfoot. Natasha was about to do so as well, but then James gave her a look that was as close to a plea for support as he was probably able to make, so she stood by the door as James pushed in past the equipment and doctors. 

"Who are you?" one of them asked, not unkindly. Nobody was at the house without a reason. 

"Next of kin," James answered. The doctor looked up curiously, but nodded. 

From the doorway, Natasha could see that Steve looked like a passing resemblance to himself. His expression, even asleep, wasn't as slack as it had been, and his coloring was better. The halo and headwrap were gone, at least temporarily, and she could see his hair, currently in a buzz cut only a little more grown out than his beard. They had needed to keep his hair short for the halo, but shaving his face had been deemed more trouble than it was worth. When (if) Steve woke up for real, they'd have to recalculate that equation; Steve hated facial hair and would get cranky if he lost or forgot his razor in the field. 

Steve roused a little, either because he was being maneuvered around or because of the noise. He didn't open his eyes or make a sound, but he tried to pull away from the nurse practitioner who'd been doing a pupil check, which made everyone laugh because it was so much more than they'd gotten out of him since any point since the shooting. 

James watched carefully, standing close as he could without getting in the way. He asked questions as the examination proceeded and was occasionally asked one in return, mostly to do with Steve's medical history. James didn't know the details of Steve's health since he'd been defrosted, but SHIELD had all that. He did know Steve's entire pre-serum history, however, and the first year-plus of his time as Captain America up until James's fall. And that, it turned out, was far from irrelevant. 

After the doctors were done doing whatever they were going to do, they asked James to follow them downstairs to talk to Peggy. This was the private part of the conversation and, once it became clear that Natasha would not be allowed in to the room once it was empty -- "he actually does need to rest now, as strange as it may sound" -- she went in search of Clint, was was sitting in the living room playing a video game with a couple of the off-duty agents. 

She sat and watched them play for a while -- it was some adventure game with talking animals -- but eventually just leaned her head back and closed her eyes. It had been a long day of travel and then she'd been the one to drive up from Denver. She didn't think she'd fallen asleep, but maybe she had because she startled a little at the two-second scalp massage Clint gave her as he passed by. 

"It's too soon for them to know anything definitively," Peggy said later as the four of them sat at the outdoor table with their dinner. "There were some responses that were excellent, some that were significantly less so. Whether this will change once he's fully alert for any real stretch of time will determine how things progress."

Steve's good responses were all related to control of the body, but the lack of verbal and non-verbal communication concerned them, as did the lack of interest in familiar objects and people. 

"Him not caring about the shield at all worries them," James said, poking uselessly at a tomato in his salad. He'd been pretty even-keeled since the meeting with the doctors, subdued but not withdrawn. Resigned, Natasha suspected. "It's brightly colored, it meant a helluva lot to him, and he just looked right past it."

Clint asked Natasha if she wanted to come back with him to Nebraska for the night; with the extra doctors, space was at a premium. There would be a bed for her, but not her own room. She accepted, less for the lack of privacy than wanting a little break from the intensity. She was worried a little about James, but she also remembered most of their time in Paris, when he'd been troubled and not only unwilling to share, but resentful of her concern. He was a big boy and Peggy could handle whatever came up if he decided not to be. 

James simply nodded when she told him. "You'll get a break," he said and she didn't reply because either agreement or disagreement would put her in a bad spot. 

Before they left, Natasha got permission from the night nurse to say goodnight to Steve. She stood at the foot of his bed for a moment, watching him sleep -- and it did look like sleep now -- before coming over to the side of the bed and taking his hand, remembering Clint's comments about their smoothness. "I'm sorry I haven't been a better friend to you," she said in a low voice, louder than a whisper but not by much. She had thought about what to say to him, but she couldn't get the rest out without choking up, so she settled for giving his hand a gentle squeeze. A moment later, Steve's hand tightened a little around hers. She didn't know if it was an automatic reaction or if he understood her in some way, but she chose to take it as forgiveness because that was what Steve would do, even if she didn't necessarily deserve it. 

If anyone noticed her damp cheeks when she bid them goodnight, nobody said anything. 

Pepper called her while they were driving back to Clint's place; it was late in New York, but of course they were still up. Tony and Bruce had spent the evening on the phone poring over the medical update as if they had licenses to practice, which wasn't that surprising to Natasha because between Bruce's study of the Other Guy and Tony's work on Extremis, they knew far more about human physiology than the average engineer and physicist did. 

"Tony's trying to convince Directory Fury to let us visit once Steve is more alert," Pepper went on. "He's willing to stage an event in Chicago and then have us drive west from there."

"That's a long drive," Clint warned. Natasha had put the phone on speaker so she didn't have to hold it to her ear. "Fourteen, fifteen hours assuming no traffic and Fury's not gonna let you guys use a limo or a driver."

"I know," Pepper agreed. She didn't sound exasperated the way she usually did when she realized she was about to get sucked into one of Tony's great adventures. Which Natasha took to mean that she wanted to do this, too. Both Pepper and Tony were close to Steve, as close as Steve really let anyone, and closer in almost every way than Natasha was herself. They hadn't seen him since his 'death' and that was more than four months ago. "But it's the closest airport Tony thinks Fury could let us try from. We can slip out of Chicago under cover of darkness, or whatever is required. It's a big enough city that everyone can think Tony spent the evening at some other hotspot."

Back at the start,  when Tony and Pepper had tried to negotiate visitation parameters, Fury and Hill had shot down every single one because of their visibility. They couldn't use small civilian airports or even airports in modestly-sized midwestern cities like Kansas City or Salt Lake City because there was no way to get in or out unnoticed and all it took was one gossip blog wondering what Tony Stark was doing in Iowa or Nebraska to put Steve at risk of discovery. Fury had made Denver off-limits because that was what everyone else used and he wanted it kept clean. 

"We'll drive from California if we have to," Pepper went on, sounding determined. "But Chicago's the shortest trip."

There was a little talk about cars and routes -- Clint knew the territory on both fronts and Natasha had little to add -- before they circled back to Steve. 

"I know what the neurologists said and I know what Tony and Bruce think they said and what it might mean, but what do you think?" Pepper asked. "You were there."

The question was directed at Clint, who'd actually seen Steve with his eyes open. 

"I think we might have to get used to the idea that the lights are on, but nobody's home," Clint said bluntly. "He was presented with the two things that mean the most to him in this time or his own, Peggy Carter and the shield, and he didn't recognize either of them."

Pepper's sigh was the only sound for a long moment. 

"I think Tony knows that, too, but he won't say it out loud," she said softly. "He won't let Bruce say it at all. He talks about Steve's recuperative powers, how far he's come already, but..."

They agreed to speak again tomorrow, hopefully with updates on Steve. 

Clint's house was modest and unpretentious, not a whole lot like his apartment in New York in terms of decoration and furnishings and probably a lot closer to what he actually liked because he had put thought into what went into these rooms and on these walls. He'd simply gone to Macy's and picked out which floor samples he liked best when it had come to the apartment in Chelsea. What was here was spare, in a decidedly masculine but not ascetic way, and comfortable. Natasha had been there before and teased him anew for failing to get a steer's head for his wall or other trappings of rural Western life. The closest he came were the horse blankets folded up on the back of the couch in the living room, but those had never been on the backs of actual horses, so it was only partial credit. Natasha dropped her things off in the spare bedroom -- already turned out for a guest, she noted -- and joined Clint out on the porch, where he sat in the swinging seat holding a beer. 

"You want one, you know where the fridge is," he told her. 

She slept late and woke to the smell of bacon. Clint made them both scrambled eggs and shame-inducing pile of bacon, crispy how they both liked it, that she consumed without any shame whatsoever. 

When they got back to the house, it was a little after noon and Steve had apparently spent the morning getting more tests and refusing to open his eyes. 

"It's like watching him when he was a kid," James said with a wry, genuine smile. "You knew he could hear you but he was still pretending to sleep. I should yell that he's late for work and see if that does anything."

James was in a good mood, not jubilant, but far better than he'd been. Even after he warned Natasha that Fury had scheduled a video conference for them with the analysts back in New York to go over in detail what Sonia had told them. It would be the price of staying here, one she was more than happy to pay on James's behalf. James, too, seemed more than content to make that exchange. 

Peggy told her later, after Clint and James had gone off to examine the long-range shooting target the security detail had set up, that Fury had also made a remote appointment with his shrink another condition of James's stay and that they'd had a session that morning. 

"Good," Natasha said, meaning it. Peggy nodded agreement, then suggested they go upstairs because she'd left her book by Steve's bedside. 

"Also, the moment Steve decides to grace us with his presence again, there's going to be a mad stampede and I will be left far behind," she added tartly, but with a smile. A night's rest had done her good, too. 

Peggy wasn't wrong; when Steve opened his eyes again, about an hour after Natasha and Clint arrived, there was indeed a race for the room. Natasha was still there, talking shop with Peggy, when Steve had started to shift on his bed, making a noise that couldn't have been interpreted as any kind of communication, and Felicity the day nurse was already summoning the medicos. Natasha texted James, who was still out on the property with Clint. Steve's eyes fluttered open, then closed, then opened again only partway, then closed again, then opened them for real when one of the doctors said his name loudly. 

As with what had gone on before, Steve tracked motion with his eyes and turned toward noise and away from bright light. He might have been responding to his name or just the command tone or just the noise; it wasn't obvious to Natasha which it was. He still made no attempt to communicate, verbally or otherwise, and his expression didn't vary much -- he wasn't showing fear or frustration or happiness or, really, anything. He looked a little wary, perhaps, or a little confused. He didn't particularly mark Natasha when he looked at her, which hurt her more than she thought it would, nor Peggy. 

And then James came running into the room, pulling up short at the foot of the bed with Clint hot on his heels. Steve, whose eyes had been starting to droop, was suddenly alert again, staring at James and not looking away. The wary confusion was gone, replaced by something that Natasha didn't think she was imagining was recognition. 

James couldn't do anything but stare back for a long moment. Steve followed him with his eyes when he approached the bed on Peggy's side, away from the doctors. When James did try to speak, he had to clear his throat and start again. "About time, ya goober," he said roughly, the fondness still coming through even if Natasha couldn't see the smile. "What is it with you and the Rip Van Winkle stuff, hunh?"

Steve didn't try to speak, but continued to watch James like he was the best birthday present ever. James tried to get Steve to pay attention to other people, especially the doctors who wanted to do more tests, but it was a mixed success and Steve faded quickly after a while.

Natasha wasn't present for the discussion, being shooed out of the room along with everyone else not Peggy or James, but she didn't need to be to understand that Steve's reaction to James had probably saved him from a far more dismal evaluation. Steve wasn't just childlike, he was almost infantile. 

She didn't see James until they were both in the secure communications room getting ready to spend the next few hours talking to the analysts. Natasha found video conferences easier to handle than in-person ones; there was an air of urgency that came with the remoteness, a bigger premium placed on using time wisely, as if her time was less valuable when she was in New York. 

When it came time to relate Sonia's pronouncement that James would have been the regional commander of Russia, Natasha left out the part about James not being suited to work in North America, instead pointing out that it was the most important position as far as Lukin went. She didn't look to see if James was annoyed or relieved by her omission. 

Peggy came in partway through, bringing her knitting and sitting in the back, needles clacking away until they paused and she said something insightful or filled in a relevant detail from long ago. Her memory was imperfect, but it was still prodigious and, as a Director of SHIELD and the orchestrator of the 1951 HYDRA raids, she had seen plenty that still mattered. 

The New York side of the conference shared with them that there was a crisis of small proportion in Venezuela, where two Americans of Venezuelan descent had been arrested for espionage, allegedly outed by the Russians as a make-nice gesture for the loss of life and cash that had come with the heist in Caracas. The two women really were CIA assets, not agents, just regular civilians who passed on info to the CIA voluntarily, and Langley was very upset. It wasn't SHIELD's concern as far as doing anything about it, but it was something to add to the Lukin file, perhaps? Neither James nor Natasha were sold on it actually being anything other than what it was, which was the Russians using the Americans to assure the Venezuelans that all was still good between them. 

Steve woke up again in the evening, although nobody but Peggy was there to see it because James had once again volunteered her for a perimeter defense probe. Clint, who was still on medical leave but had already started training on his own, asked to join them and so the three of them suited up. The security detail had been excited all day and there had apparently been bribes offered to switch duty roster spots so as to be on when two Avengers and the Winter Soldier stormed the castle. It was a treat for the detail, far from their usual routine, which generally involved monitoring fauna and checking license plates for vehicles on US-85. 

Steve had performed no new tricks, Peggy reported when they returned having been caught even further out, mostly through improvements in tactics and technology made as a result of their last test.  "He's clearly forgetting that he used to earn a good living as a trained seal for the USO."

Natasha went back to Clint's and they returned again the following day in time for lunch, which they did not get to eat because as soon as they got inside and said hello, they were summoned to the comms room. 

"We've got something on the shooter," Hill told them. "It's a woman."

The screen was filled with grainy bad-angle video footage from a security camera in the stairwell of the building in Rosslyn that lead up to the roof. It was timestamped roughly five minutes after the shooting and showed what could have been a woman's form, but her figure was partially obscured by all that she was carrying.

The footage was then replaced by still photos of the same footage, digitally enhanced and cleaned up. It was much more obvious that the figure was a woman, but there was no clear shot of the face or any identifying features, nothing that could be used for further identification. 

"It's a shitty starting point," Hill admitted. "But it's something. There aren't that many women who could pull off this shot and fewer still who'd agree to make Captain America the target."

Between Clint, James, and Natasha, they could probably name all of them and tried to. Elektra, definitely, White Tiger ("Wait, isn't White Tiger a guy?" "There's a new one, same iconography, but this one is a woman with three long distance assassinations to her record that we know about."), there were a couple of Japanese women who've been making names for themselves...

"I know who it is," James said suddenly. His voice was cold, much more Winter Soldier than James, and it drew everyone's attention. "Yelena Belova."

Belova was a Black Widow, which required Natasha explaining that it was actually a rank within Department X, one that had effectively been retired after she had obliterated all of the benchmarks and the name had become her codename out of respect. It didn't surprise Natasha at all that it had been returned to the general pool after her defection. 

James didn't know too much about Belova's career with the Red Room, but he did know that that was where Lukin had found her. What he said or did or offered to get her to come to Latveria, James wasn't sure, either, but she did come and accepted a commission in Latveria's foreign intelligence service. A lot of the best of Russia's spies and soldiers did -- the pay and the working conditions were much better in Latveria. 

There was clearly more to the story, Natasha wasn't the only one to see, but James avoided all chances to be asked to explain further.

"Is she Lukin's or Doom's?" Clint asked. 

"She wasn't doing anything where she would have been forced to choose," James replied. "But not all of the people Lukin recruited for Latveria were his."

What were her assignments and how good was she?

"Anything Natasha can do, she can do," James said simply.

"But not as well?" Hill prompted.

"Better in most physical tasks; she's younger and stronger and isn't averse to popping amphetamines or other stimulants for the boost. But she _is_ younger and has less experience to draw upon, so..." James trailed off with a shrug. 

Natasha was bothered by this assessment, even though she understood it to be true and why. Nobody wanted to be told that there was a newer, better model. Especially by someone like James, who was in a position to fairly assess both of them. And maybe a little because James's assessment meant more to her than she would have liked to admit. 

"Why is she only coming up now?" Hill asked. "We've been pumping you for months." 

"Because it wasn't ever relevant," James answered, not getting defensive despite Hill's accusatory tone. "She's mostly been on foreign assignments in Africa for the last couple of years. I didn't have much to do with her and even less reason to care about her whereabouts while I was still Lukin's man."

Which was not how James normally referred to his time as the Winter Soldier, but that, too, was a fluid thing. 

"And you never thought she could be the shooter, even when you thought Lukin or Doom was behind it?" Hill prompted. "Why do you think she is now?"

"I still think Lukin or Doom is behind it," James corrected sourly. "And no, I didn't. Every single time we worked together, I was the sniper. She was close-quarters work, like Natasha. She didn't show the skills for sniping then; she must have trained up for it. But if either of them was going to use a woman shooter, it would be her because she _could_ be trained up for it."

There was more discussion, especially after SHIELD managed to pull together what little they had on Belova. 

"I'm going to need you both to return to New York," Hill said, which didn't surprise Natasha. 

"No," James shot back, which was even less of a surprise. 

"Look, I understand," Hill began, but James cut her off.

"Do you really?"

Hill paused a beat. "No, I suppose I don't," she agreed. "But the fact remains that if the shooter is Belova -- the name _you_ gave us -- then you two are the most essential resources we have and we need you here so we can send you somewhere else."

James didn't look wholly convinced and Natasha didn't blame him -- in his time working with SHIELD, New York has been a place of idleness, endless meetings and briefings, and other non-events that could just as easily be taken care of (and probably far more quickly) from the secure comms room here.

"You came to us looking for someone to kill," Hill pressed him when he said nothing. "While I'm glad to see that that's no longer your top priority -- and I say that seriously -- the task still remains."

There was no rebutting that. They agreed that Natasha and James could stay until tomorrow morning, although Natasha offered to come back early if it meant James could stay behind an extra day. Clint would finish his medical leave, which ended at this week anyway, before returning. In the meanwhile, he volunteered to drive back to his place and get Natasha's stuff so that she could stay here and then she and James could leave together. 

Natasha might have regretted not tagging along with Clint because James was short-tempered and frustrated with everyone but Steve, who managed to stay awake for almost half an hour. Peggy, as per usual, tolerated none of James's mood and sent him outside to work off his pissiness rather than sit by Steve's bedside and stew. It seemed to do him good, however, because by the time Clint returned and everyone sat down for dinner together, he was tolerable to be around again and even joked with some of the detail agents. 

The evening's planned entertainment was going to be a group showing of the first episodes of _A Game of Thrones_ because the security detail was firm in their belief Peggy could teach the Lannisters a thing or three and they wanted to know what she thought. Natasha had read the books but had never seen the television show and Clint wanted to see Peggy's reaction, so they sat and watched while James went upstairs to stay with Steve. During an intermission between episodes so that the agents could quiz Peggy, Natasha murmured to Clint that she was going upstairs to check on the boys. 

She found James sitting with his hand in Steve's and they were watching a movie on Peggy's Starkvision tablet, which was propped up on the overbed tray table.

Steve was awake, if heavy-lidded, and watching the screen. He looked up at her with interest but no recognition. The doctors were still refusing to commit to anything so soon, but between Natasha and James and Peggy and Clint, they agreed that regardless of whatever faculties he might or might not regain, it was very likely that he had no memories of anything after the serum, maybe even before then. He recognized an adult James, but nothing to do with his life after he became Captain America. 

"If that young man is the best we can do," Peggy had said with what Natasha had considered remarkable aplomb, "then we will still have done very well for ourselves."

Here and now, Natasha gave Steve a little wave as he watched her cross the room to stand by James, but then he returned his attention to the movie. 

" _A Night at the Opera_ ," James explained when she leaned over far enough to see the screen, balancing with a light hand on his shoulder. "We went to go see this four weekends in a row when it came out. We might have even paid for it once."

James was still in his zen state, which wasn't really anything like actual zen, but he wasn't radiating tension or grief or guilt, his posture was relaxed, and he'd smiled as he spoke. Taking care of Steve was good for him in ways she hoped he saw, too. 

Natasha watched for a few minutes with them, her hand still on James's shoulder, before going back downstairs. She gave Peggy a nod before returning to her seat next to Clint. 

They had to leave before dawn again. James went in to see Steve, who woke up at the kiss to his forehead. James told him to behave for everyone else and that he'd better start talking soon because otherwise, James was going to come back and start telling everyone all of his secrets. "And don't you think I won't start with the list of ladies you decided to show what the Star Spangled Man really stands up for," he warned, voice rough even though he kept his tone light. "Peggy's dying to know."

They drove to the airport in silence, the windows down.


	10. Chapter 10

The meeting was in Fury's offices at the 44th Street headquarters instead of a conference room or, worse, an auditorium. The representatives from the various analysis desks, Hill, James, and Natasha. The analysts had been working on gathering a file on Belova; she had been in Africa, as James had said, securing resources for Latveria by seducing the right men, greasing the right palms, and slitting the right throats. James was willing to answer any questions about her, but he warned them that the already knew more of the specifics of her time in Africa than he did, although he did point out that two of the kills the Africa Section was attributing to Belova had really been his. She seemed to have disappeared from her official base of operations in Mombasa shortly after James had begun his revenge spree and nobody thought that those two events were unrelated. SHIELD was still trying to trace her movements in the greater DC/Virginia/Maryland areas; they didn't get a reasonable photo of Belova to pass on to local authorities until this morning and they weren't even sure if that was what she had looked like at the time of the shooting. But it was a start, which was more than they had had.

After the work on Belova and Lukin was done, the analysts were dismissed.

Once it was just the four of them, the conversation turned to Steve. Fury had read the updates and spoken to the doctors and to Peggy and he was under no illusions about the hard road Steve would travel from here on out.

"The house and the security detail will be his for the rest of his life," Fury told James. Natasha understood she was still here as a courtesy. "His current level of care will not change. I've made provisions to assure this as best as I am able."

"Provisions?" James prompted warily.

"We don't know what his natural lifespan is," Fury answered. "We don't even know if he will age."

Steve hadn't, really, not in the years that she'd known him. Although, granted, a man in his mid-late twenties wasn't going to be ravaged by the passage of time, serum or no, if he lived the kind of life Steve had. She hadn't considered immortality as a possibility, even before the shooting. She wondered if Steve had and, if he had, what he'd thought of it. Probably nothing good; he had already lost so much to the passage of time once, to do it again and again, to watch her and Clint and Tony and Pepper wither and die in the future, the way he had considered every moment with Peggy so precious now... no.

"The serum didn't make him immortal," James pointed out sourly. "The peak of human whatever-you-want isn't going to make him live forever."

"Two different variants of the serum let both of you survive experiences anyone else would have died from," Hill said, looking back challengingly when James frowned at her. "Look, Fury and I could get killed on the way back to the Helicarrier this afternoon. Or fifty years -- or a hundred years -- from now, some new Director of SHIELD could decide that the magical mystery fund for the house in Wyoming is a great place to cut budget. You're not actually _upset_ that we're not going to turf him out now that he's no longer Captain America, are you?"

"No," James admitted. Natasha knew him well enough by this point to understand what he'd really been doing, which had been testing their resolve. Both he and Steve had lost their families over and over again -- their birth families, each other, the Commandos -- and it was instinct for James to wait for Steve to lose this one, too. "I just... no."

Fury waited a beat before continuing. "I am bringing this up now because I want your mind settled on that front," he said. "Through your and the Widow's contributions, we are now -- _finally_ \-- in forward motion. Motion that is only going to accelerate. Your plate is about to get a lot fuller and I want all of your attention on what is in front of you, not on what is or isn't happening in Wyoming. You will be kept updated and given as much access as your schedule will allow, but it will be as your schedule allows. Do you understand me, Sergeant Barnes?"

Three months ago, James had bridled at the appellation, but here he didn't protest it and in any other circumstance, Natasha would have cheered. "Just don't waste my time," he told Fury coolly. "I'm not here to be paraded around BS sessions like a trick pony. That was Steve's gig."

"You are not going to have any time for me to waste," Fury assured, standing up. The meeting was over.

Natasha followed James outside and was unsurprised when he gave her a quick peck on the cheek and said he'd speak to her tomorrow. Neither of them had been back in their respective apartments in more than a week, during which time they'd been together almost constantly and not always comfortably. She could use a little quiet time to herself and he most certainly needed more than the flight from Denver to Newark to absorb everything that had happened since Paris. She started walking north, doing her best to tune out the tourists and enjoy early fall in New York. And then her cell phone rang.

"Are you spying on me?" Natasha asked Tony instead of saying hello. Although once she asked, she realized it was probably more likely that Tony were spying on Fury.

"Um, no?" Tony replied, although he sounded far less mystified or insulted than anyone else would when presented with that accusation. "Barton said you guys were back in New York and Fury wasn't going to keep you forever. Pepper suggested drinks and/or dinner."

Natasha looked at her watch, debating whether to accept on her own behalf; James would probably not appreciate it, at least not today. Given her own druthers, she'd rather go back to her apartment, but she also knew that Tony and Pepper wanted more than whatever updates they'd been getting out of Clint during the week. She just wasn't sure she had what they wanted, which was either a definitive answer or the ability to get them out to see him. Nor was she sure she had the energy to bear their disappointment. "James is already on the way home," she said. "I think he'd prefer to stay in tonight."

"Then we'll expect you in, what, fifteen?"

"I've been up since four," she pointed out. "I've just been trapped in Fury's office for the last three hours. I'm still carrying my travel bag. I need to shower and sleep."

"We'll make it an early night," Tony promised and he didn't plead, he never pleaded, but this was whatever wasn't that.

Natasha bit her lip. "A drink," she said, firm enough to make it clear she didn't want to be arm-twisted into more, but light enough that it was still a social invitation and not the inquisition they both knew it would be. 

"I shall make you a martini so dirty, it'll be X-rated," Tony assured, the unspoken agreement left just so. 

It was early for Pepper to be done for the day, but Natasha didn't say anything about it in return for them not saying that she looked like something the cat had dragged in. The martini was indeed filthy, but Pepper made sure she at least ate a couple of the eggplant and pepper crostini and had some cheese because Natasha could drink alcohol like any other Russian, but on an empty stomach and after a long day, it would go to her head more than usual. 

Tony waited until some signal from Pepper that Natasha didn't see to start asking about Steve. 

"He's awake for longer stretches," Natasha told them. "But he's not... It's easy to try to see Steve in who he is now. To give meaning and purpose to what he does. But I don't... I don't know how much of it is real and how much is us wishing it was." 

Tony was sitting on the couch across from hers, forearms on his thighs, tumbler in hand. He looked up at her. "He knows who Barnes is, though, right? That's something."

Natasha exhaled forcefully. "He knows he likes James," she said slowly, making sure she got her thoughts out correctly the first time. She hadn't said this out loud to anyone, not Peggy or Clint and certainly not James. "I don't know if he knows who James is per se."

She could see the impact of that distinction on Tony's face. 

"We think he might just be missing memories, that he's stuck at twelve or seventeen or twenty-two," she went on. "And he might be, for all we know. But he's missing too much else for us to find out. He's not even trying to communicate, he doesn't react to anything, he doesn't smile or cry... there's a void where _Steve_ used to be. I don't know how or if it gets filled."

She was thinking of Steve looking guilelessly at her, impassive and vaguely curious in an abstract way. Him not knowing her hurt, but him not knowing anything else hurt more. 

"We didn't think we'd get this far," Pepper said, sounding exactly like she was trying to cheer herself up and failing. "It's Steve. He's got more miracles in him even if he doesn't know it yet."

Natasha stayed for her one drink and neither Pepper nor Tony pressed her to stay longer. It was still light out when she left and that perfect warm-cool temperature for walking, but she wasn't really in the mood to appreciate it. She got home, unpacked her bag by dumping the contents on the bed and carrying the dirty laundry to the hamper in the bathroom and then getting into the shower and washing away the travel and the frustration and the little bit of grief. Because she was grieving, she realized. Steve in his coma had been nonetheless full of potential, but Steve as he was now, the empty vessel with only his happiness at seeing James rattling around like the sole coin in the piggy bank, that was the proof of loss. 

She left the rest of her travel gear -- sundries, book, weapons -- on the bed and dressed in sweats and a tank top and went to see what she could dig out of her freezer because she didn't even have the energy to decide on delivery options. There was still some pelmeni and there was sour cream and there was some pinot grigio and that was good enough. 

She had no intention of going in to 44th Street without a summons, so she spent the following day doing laundry, grocery shopping online, cleaning her weapons, and finishing writing up the notes on the trip to see Sonia because Fury wanted the file completely updated at all times, no really, he's not kidding about that, please stop laughing and start typing. 

In the early afternoon, there was a text from Clint: Super-soldier with no gross motor skills is both hilarious and terrifying. (Everyone's okay.)

She took a break to go running in Hudson River Park; Central Park was closer, but she hated running there when the Drive was still open to cars. There was a breeze off the water, as usual, and a sun that wasn't quite ready to lose its summer fierceness, and it felt good. Running in Nebraska had been pleasant but boring; even in a park on the periphery in the middle of a weekday, New York was never boring. 

When she ran past the Chelsea Piers, she made a note to herself to ask Clint if he wanted her to stop by his apartment and open the windows and get him some milk before he got back over the weekend.

Having done everything she could to procrastinate on the Croatia notes, she returned to them, only to find that James had submitted his own report and then four separate analysis units had submitted written questions to both of them and yes, Fury wanted these done ASAP, too. 

"Wanna crib off each other's quiz papers?" James asked when she called. 

"I'll bring dinner if you start writing out the answers now," she offered. 

She waited for the FreshDirect delivery, calling in an order to Mission Chinese as she headed for the subway. 

They made it a working dinner, batting around ideas about Lukin and Belova and HYDRA, speaking in the shorthand that came easily to them now, a mixture of shared experiences and past history that wasn't uncomfortable the way it had been at the start. They had both been bad people, the difference in duration less than in degree, and with that came a certain lack of reticence and a disinterest in hiding their darker thoughts from possibly judging ears. There was no one here to shame them unless they did it to themselves. James the POW twice over would do it gladly, but James the master operative accepted that he saw the world differently for having been a good soldier for the wrong side and could use it to do battle for the angels now.

But something was bothering James, she realized. He wasn't skirting the edge of the abyss of despair that came with his accessing his past as the Winter Soldier, but something was eating at him.

"Out with it," she ordered, sipping at her wine. 

"I slept with her," James said, pushing his kung-pao pastrami around his plate with his fork. "Belova. I let her seduce me. I didn't get why Lukin found it so amusing when he found out about it. He made a crack about me and spider webs and the two of them must have found it funny as hell that I was repeating history and didn't know it."

Lukin wouldn't necessarily have told Belova about Natasha and James, she knew. But it had hardly been a great secret in the Red Room and Belova had probably heard all about it when she was trying to surpass the last Black Widow. Seducing James had been taking one more prize away from Natasha, even if one of the principals didn't know it. 

"You remembered me later on," she offered, since there was no reason he needed to apologize. And that's what this confession was. 

It was possibly not the right thing to say, since her proof of his remembering had come when he'd taken care to verbally twist the knife right into her heart in Doomstadt. 

"Not all of it," he said after a long moment. "Not most of it and what there was, it was out of order and out of context. I wasn't sure how much I dreamt and how much I imagined and what was real. That was happening by the end, a lot of weird shit in my head that made no sense but I knew I didn't have the imagination to come up with on my own. Nothing from before the fall, just... I think whatever they did to me after we got found out, it was starting to break down a little. I remembered your smile -- your real one -- and I remembered at least part of what happened in Kaliningrad. I wasn't sure if the first was real. I was pretty sure the second was."

He gave her a smirk and a wink that made it clear which part of the adventures in Kaliningrad he remembered. Kaliningrad had been their most spectacular adventure as professional partners, not to mention also resulting in an astonishing amount of damage to the hotel room once they'd returned, high on adrenaline and lust and, maybe, love. The next morning, surveying the damage, James had joked that he was going to get punted back to the Monster Factory when their bosses saw the bill for damages. It hadn't been funny three weeks later and the way the grin faltered reflected that.

"We could make sure you remembered it properly this time," she said casually as she plucked a potato out of the container with her chopsticks. When she looked up, James was staring at her. She cocked an eyebrow challengingly. She'd thought about this. About what she wanted, about what James might want, about what both of them might need. She was familiar enough with who he was now -- and that was still a changing thing -- that she knows she liked this Bucky-James, enjoyed spending time with him even as he frustrated her. They were very different people than they'd been in the Red Room, but they were still compatible in the ways that mattered. She'd never had anyone in her life with whom she shared so many fundamental experiences and she had been surprised at how comfortable that was turning out to be, how easy they were together despite all of the crap he was going though. How easy it had been to care for him.

"Natasha," he began warily.

"If you are about to imply I am making this suggestion for altruistic purposes, I am going to take off your shiny new arm and beat you to death with it," she warned. "Besides, even fabulous sex isn't going to make you any less screwed up in the head."

He laughed then, genuinely.

"Finish eating," she told him, gesturing to his plate with her chopsticks. "You'll need your strength."

"Yes, ma'am."

The bedroom stayed intact this time; they were neither high on adrenaline nor racing against stolen time nor fueled by the fear of discovery or punishment. At least not in the same fashion.

"What?" James asked when she started to giggle as they lay tangled in each other and the sheets.

"I think it just hit me where we are," she admitted, embarrassed. "We had sex in Captain America's bed."

It's not that she had forgotten that this was Steve's apartment, not with so much of his personality still pervading the space. But James had gotten over his initial feelings of unworthiness and he'd stopped treating the place like a museum months ago. He hadn't changed the furniture or anything, but it looked liked he lived here, too, now. 

James chuffed out a laugh, rubbing at his face with the hand not pinned down where was leaning on his right arm. 

" _Someone_ should," he said airily. She smacked his belly and he reached down to knot his fingers with hers. His hand didn't quite feel like muscle and bone under skin, but it didn't feel robotic, either, because he had such fine control over it. He was comfortable enough with it now that she'd forgotten entirely that it wasn't flesh when he'd been touching her earlier. "Besides, it's not the first time. Or the second. Well, the first time he wasn't Captain America yet."

She lifted her head up so she could see his face. "Do I really want to know?"

He grinned at her, laughter in his eyes, and she could see both Steve's Bucky and her James and the man they'd grown into. "Depends. How do you feel about dirty stories?"

The next morning, Natasha went back to her apartment and James went in to headquarters to talk to the analysts about the questions they'd sent and then his shrink about everything else. Including her, presumably. 

Her email inbox, the private one she used for contacts and other non-SHIELD business was fuller than she expected and her first inclination was to check her official account to find out what had happened. But reading them through, she realized that there hadn't been any particular event, just the cumulative situations. The Russia-China conflict hadn't broken into open warfare yet, but it was getting closer, especially with the unofficial escalations -- the Chinese were hacking into all of the Kremlin's servers, the Russian ultra-nationalists were making life dangerous for the Chinese nationals (or anyone with slanted eyes, which could mean Koreans or Kazakhs). People were getting curious, a few were getting nervous, and Natasha was a natural choice to turn to for an answer. She was careful in her replies; no matter how off-the-record she claimed to be, anything she said was still going to be interpreted as bearing the imprimatur of SHIELD. 

Clint had said yes, please to her offer to open up his place, even though he was pretty sure he was going to be sent to North Africa to look for Belova as soon as he was activated, so she made sure she had cash and his keys on her when she went out for a run. 

Sonia had replied to her questions about Belova by the time Natasha got back and showered. Belova had been spotted in Europe in the last several months, apparently on the hunt for whoever had been upsetting the Latverian apple cart -- James on his spree, although nobody had known it at the time -- but was still primarily an Africa expert. 

Sonia had told them that Belova was the presumptive candidate to run Africa for Lukin, but despite that, Sonia hadn't known any more than James about which one of Doom or Lukin Belova was really loyal to. "Her primary loyalty is to herself," Sonia wrote now. "She'd rather reign in hell than serve in heaven, but which one Latveria qualifies as, I could not tell you." She deferred to James's knowledge about Belova's relevant skills to have been Steve's assassin, but absolutely believed that Belova would have jumped at the chance, whoever had asked it of her. "She's more than a little fixated on you, still," Sonia warned. "Everything you did, she wants to do it better. Anything you couldn't have done, she wants to prove she can."

James called her in the late afternoon. He was still at 44th Street and had just gotten free of the analysts. He was going to shoot at the range and use the gym because he was too cranky to be let free on the streets of Manhattan, but after that, did she want to do something? 

He didn't sound like he was asking her to be his stress toy or his shrink and he had none of the hesitation he'd occasionally shown during their first time together in New York, like he thought he might be imposing on her. This was yet a new James, nothing at all like the very first one and yet so much like him at moments that it was disorienting. 

"Call me after you've showered," she told him. "My answer will depend on how much crankiness you can wash off."

James laughed. "I'll even clean behind my ears."

They met at a diner on 10th normally favored by John Jay students, an old place that looked like it hadn't changed much since it had opened, allegedly in 1952. Clint had taken her and Steve here once because, he had said, the fries were fresh-cut and he had wanted Steve's opinion on the egg creams. But he'd really been a little mopey because it had been his brother's birthday, which was why Natasha had agreed to go when she normally avoided places that offered breakfast food for dinner. She was choosing it now because James was not nearly the adventurous eater Steve was and, while he'd never complain and he'd eat whatever he ordered, she could let him off the hook by choosing someplace with straightforward fare. 

James thought the menu was hilarious. The descriptions of the options were fulsome and ridiculous, which Natasha hadn't noticed until it was pointed out because she hadn't needed an explanation for what "cheeseburger" or "open-faced tuna melt" was. 

"Right before the war, I used to wait tables at a place around the corner from headquarters, pretty much, Broadway at Forty-Third," he explained. "Toffenetti's. Place was the size of the Helicarrier and the menu was written up like the food version of a ladies' magazine. 'Precious beauty, born of the ashes of extinct volcanoes, brings divine enjoyment, strength to dare and do. Its farinaceous beauty makes life a perfect poem. What a gust of feeling it brings.'"

He recited the quote with a straight face and a voice that tried to minimize his Brooklyn accent and sound vaguely high-class English. Which perhaps only made her laugh harder. 

"You know what that's for?" he asked in his usual voice. "Go ahead, guess." 

She shook her head no, wiping tears from her eyes. "I couldn't even begin to try."

"It's a plain baked potato," he told her and she started to laugh again, making him smile. "I'm a guy from Red Hook who barely understood half the stuff I read in high school English and I'm supposed to spout this baloney with a straight face. And if that was the lingo for a potato, you could imagine what the daily specials sounded like. I didn't know what 'farinaceous' meant until Steve went and looked it up in the dictionary. It means starchy, in case you ever need a Scrabble word." 

They ordered, James temporarily confusing the waitress by using the menu's florid description instead of just saying "reuben on rye." He was clearly in a good mood, enough that he'd volunteered memories of his old life without them being pried out or forced and, even better, without them bringing him down afterward, as they so often did when it was with anyone but Peggy or Steve. If she were crass -- or if Clint or Tony were present -- they would make a comment about what good sex did for him, but she knew better. The sex had indeed been good, but it was really the everything else that was letting him be comfortable enough to touch the past without expecting to get burned. 

Which was why she felt she was still in safe territory when she suggested that the egg creams were acceptable here. 

"Steve turned you on to those?" he asked with what might have been approval. 

"He had one here," she corrected. "I don't mind them, but I don't have the... cultural tie to them that he does. But he liked to make them, so I drank them. That's why there's a Sodastream in your kitchen, by the way."

"A what?" James looked confused. 

"Seltzer maker," she offered, but he only changed his look of confusion. 

"I found the seltzer maker," he said slowly. "And it looked exactly like the ones we grew up with." 

He must have found the one Steve had been using before Clint had given him the Sodastream. 

"It's either right next to that in the cabinet, or it's hiding in the storage closet with the Roomba and all of the other Twenty-First Century toys that baffled him," she suggested. "His relationship with modern technology was not as smooth as he would have liked to believe."

They went back to her place afterward. James was frankly curious about her apartment, wandering from room to room as she put up water for tea. 

"Is this by choice or necessity?" he asked and she didn't misinterpret what he was asking about or why. Was this what he would have to do if he ever tried to settle down for real: live in a house that looked like a hotel?

Her apartment was tastefully appointed, attractive, and completely devoid of personal touches save for the clutter currently on the dining table and a few pieces of art Steve had made for her.

"Neither. Both," she admitted with a shrug that was more self-effacing than casual. "It's probably far less necessary than I think it is, but... I'd never really had a home, so when I got this place, I treated it like every other crash pad I'd ever occupied. I had no other frame of reference. And even later on, once I had realized that there was a permanence to this and not just a place where I stored my things and slept... I think I was afraid to jinx it."

Which was the truth, maybe more truth than she'd have otherwise liked to admit, but it was perhaps also not the entire truth. This was not the first time she'd been asked that question, challenged in that way. Steve had brought it up, carefully and gently and out of concern for her and not, as James was doing, as if she might be a Ghost of Christmas Future warning him to mend his ways. And so she knew that the rest of the truth was that she didn't know what to do to make it a _home_. She didn't have hobbies, she didn't build or make anything, she didn't buy movies or books with an eye toward building a collection she could look over or display, she didn't collect anything at all. She had an iPod full of music she liked, but that wasn't the wall of CDs Clint had in his apartment. Her music was private and portable, hidden from view as if made her vulnerable and ready to run when she was. 

Thinking about it depressed her. 

"Steve was on a mission to make the place look 'lived in,'" she said, gesturing to the sketch on the kitchen wall. The sketch, in colored pencils, was a caricature of her, poking gentle fun at her lack of cooking skills but proficiency in reheating. There was no signature but James would know Steve had drawn it. She had two other pieces by him, a watercolor in the living room and an oil painting in the bedroom. "He said it was time to stop running."

The watercolor, a rainy day in Manhattan with a muted palette of grays and blues save for a flame-haired woman in a dark green raincoat, had been a 'welcome back' present after she'd been cleared (or near enough) of espionage, before she'd been formally reinstated by SHIELD but after she'd already started working with Fury to lay the ground for what would become the assault on Minyar. "One more thing to tie you down so you don't fly away," he'd written on the little note, which was tucked behind the matting if anyone bothered to open the frame. She hadn't realized he'd forgiven her until he'd handed her the wrapped package; he probably had much earlier, but she hadn't wanted to confuse hope with fact, so she'd waited for some kind of proof. Which might have been why he'd given her the painting in the first place. 

"Gonna have to go bid at one of the art auctions to get my own reminder," James said, then smiled. "I used to have to shove his sketches aside to find a clean surface to put something down on and now they're worth tens of thousands. What a world!"

There had always been a market for Steve's art -- anything that hadn't been collected and stored by the government after Steve's plane crash had found its way into circulation and had commanded good money over the decades -- but his 'death' in June had sent the value skyrocketing. Steve had never produced anything for profit since his return, but he had done work for sale at charity auctions and he'd drawn doodles during his visits to hospitals and other appearances and those, now, were worth fortunes. 

"You don't have to bid on anything," she retorted, turning off the stove as the kettle started to whistle. She poured the water in the teapot and two cups, then emptied the rest into the sink and started again. "You can ask SHIELD to cough up the boxes they're storing for Steve. You'll probably find your old clothes and your sword and whatever else got packed up when he enlisted. I don't think he threw away anything of yours and there was a lot of his stuff that he didn't want to keep in the apartment."

She knew for a fact that SHIELD still had all that had remained of Bucky Barnes's life; Steve had gone through it after he'd found out about the Winter Soldier. 

James made a face. "I don't think I want my eighty-year-old ratty undershirts," he said. "But maybe my hats. I miss my hats. I miss everyone wearing hats."

It was Natasha's turn to scowl. "Only because you never had to worry about what one did to your hair," she told him, elbowing him gently so that he'd move from in front of where the tea box was. "You'd look very strange walking around in a fedora."

"I happen to look very good in a fedora," James replied loftily, leaning back against the counter after she retrieved the tin. "But I don't wear anything that needs a fedora anymore. I can still wear a flat cap, though."

"You'd fit right in with the hipsters," she said and laughed at his horrified expression. He didn't get to make a rebuttal because his phone started ringing in his pocket. 

"Peggy," he mouthed as he answered it, then gestured with his head toward the living room. 

As the water boiled and she filled the teapot again, she could hear James talking to Peggy and then to Steve. He told Steve about the bureaucracy at SHIELD and then the diner, then told him that she was "maybe my girl now. She's maybe always been my girl, but I didn't remember for a long time. It's one more thing they took from me that I'm trying to take back... Yes, Miss Carter, I know she's not going to want to hear me calling her that. But me and Steve are old fellas... he did, too. We all did. Well, Dernier called you Steve's _cherie_ , but that's just French for the same thing... because it made Steve blush. And because it's true."

She would have rolled her eyes if she'd been in front of him when he'd called her his girl, but she had honestly gotten used to James's occasionally dated English usage (his Russian was as contemporary as hers); after spending so much time with Steve, she hardly noticed it most of the time and James was actually better than Steve had been at the beginning. And word choice aside, being James's anything, having him say it out loud to people he cared about and without any hesitancy... it felt strange. Good strange, because she hadn't ever been anyone's anything, not for real, not without an artifice and a cover story, since the last time she had been James's anything.

She loaded up the tray and brought it into the living room as James was telling Steve about the new bakery around the corner from the apartment that only sold things made out of flax and quinoa, which he pronounced wrong, then was apparently corrected since he then repeated it properly, if sarcastically, and "other kinds of birdseed, nothing normal people eat, but there's always a line out the door" and about how they were searching for the woman who'd shot him. His voice got cold when he promised that he was going to kill Belova. 

"I know you don't want to hear that, that you don't want any more blood on my hands and not in your name, but if you really want to stop me, you're going to have to say the words. And even then, I can't make any promises because I need to do this, Steve. I _want_ to do this. And I don't like what it says about me and I know you don't like it, either, but there it is. This is who I am."

He was looking at her when he said this and she realized he was warning her, too. So she handed him a mug because she already knew this about him and she was okay with that. It was who she was, too. And James was going to have to fight her for the privilege of paying Belova back bullet for bullet.

"Give Steve and Peggy my best," she said, reaching for the ginger-lemon shortbread cookies she had put out.

James woke up screaming in the middle of the night and, this time, she didn't leave him to some imagined private shame because she was right there next to him. She turned on the light when he started scrabbling as if to take his arm off because she wasn't sure if he was awake and understood what he was doing. 

"Something's wrong with it," he gritted out as he turned to put his feet on the ground, eyes full of tears that might have been just from the pain, since he was clearly in agony. "Fucking thing gave me flashbacks to Zola's lab."

She scooted over beside him, ignoring for now the victory that was him admitting out loud what was bothering him in his head. "What can I do? How do we get it off?"

The instructions were straightforward, even if the process was a little weird, visually; Tony had designed it so that it could be done by James alone if he had to. James gasped lungfuls of air once it was off, rubbing his face with his remaining hand. Natasha got off the bed and took the arm over to her vanity, leaving it on the bench before returning to him. 

"Do you want something for the pain?" she asked, reaching out to hold his face gently in her hands. He shook his head no, not trying to break out of her hold. "Then drink some water and let's go back to sleep. You can call Tony in the morning for tech support."

She let him go so he could reach for the water glass on the bedside table, but didn't back away lest he decide to do something stupid like go sleep on the couch to avoid disturbing her. Once the lights were back off, she curled herself around him and he made an amused noise, which she took to mean he knew very well what she was doing. She wasn't much of a cuddler and disliked trying to sleep using her partner's torso as a pillow and James knew this, so maybe it was obvious. She didn't care. 

"Don't make me knock you out," she warned as a whisper in his ear. 

"You'd love that," he retorted with a chuckle she felt as a rumble beneath her. 

"You know me too well."

In the proper morning, well after the sun came up, they woke again and, after breakfast, James called Tony while Natasha looked for a bag that could accommodate James's arm, since it wouldn't fit in a shopping bag. 

"Oh, absolutely not!" James protested with alarm when she held up the pink floral-print rucksack. "No."

She stood her ground. "I think last night should be sufficient proof of your heterosexual masculinity to be able to bear the indignity of it for the fifteen minutes it will take to get over to Stark Tower on the subway."

Apparently Tony heard that part, or maybe just her voice in the same room as James's first thing in the morning was enough for Tony's dirty mind to draw the correct conclusion because James's next words were to him. "Shut it, Stark. It's none of your business and it ain't healthy for you... _I_ won't have to do anything. She'll kill you first."

For that bit of respect-giving, she put aside the ruck and went to look for what else could be used. The yellow backpack couldn't fit the arm inside without the fingers and most of the palm poking out because the arm was locked at the elbow and that just looked horribly creepy. She emptied out the gray duffel at the bottom of her cedar chest that she kept extra weapons in, so it ended up smelling like cedar chips and gun oil, but the arm fit easily. Unfortunately, it also looked like there was still a shotgun in it and it had no shoulder strap, so James wouldn't have a free hand while carrying it. It was poor tactics, but it was a short enough trip that James was willing to be a little nervous rather than a lot metrosexual. 

"You are showing your age," she told him tartly as he headed out. 

Twenty minutes after James left, Tapper called her and asked if she were up for a short assignment. She said yes so long as it didn't interfere with the hunt for Belova, which was the reason she'd been recalled to New York in the first place. 

"It's related," Tapper assured. "Also, it's a quick trip to wine country in Portugal and you always complain that I never send you anywhere nice."

The briefing packet came five minutes later over email. Tucked into the Douro valley was a small estate belonging to Edward Templeton-Graham, a former MI6 mandarin enjoying his retirement in sunny climes. Natasha recognized the name; Templeton-Graham had been a Sovietologist back in the day, a not-very-crypto Communist that the KGB had never stopped trying to turn and the British security services had watched like a hawk even after they realized he would likely never accept. Templeton-Graham had seen too much of what had really gone on in the Soviet Union and had preferred to hold out hope for a British worker's paradise, although his willingness to keep his patriotism quiet and tempt the Soviets into thinking he could be the next Kim Philby had allowed him to produce some truly spectacular intelligence product over the years. It would be fun to meet him, Natasha thought. 

It was fun. Templeton-Graham, from a distance, was just another English expat living well on his pension in Portugal's weaker economy, perpetually lightly sunburned and very well fed. But while he took her on a tour of a nearby vineyard and they strolled through the fields, he spoke in Russian and told tales of startling darkness. 

He and Lukin had been in Bonn together back in the day when it had been a national capital; Lukin had been rezident there, very young for the post, and his tenure had been drenched in blood as he had hunted down defectors and dissidents and always, _always_ sent a message in large font with each missing finger or mutilated corpse. But Lukin had also been suave and urbane and the two of them had met at embassy events and a few social ones and they had kept up the acquaintanceship over the decades since because Lukin had been arrogant enough to believe that he would be the one to finally reel the big fish in.

"I never believed he'd just graciously retire from the game of thrones in Russia," Templeton-Graham said as they strolled. "He insisted he'd had enough, that he has a wife and young children now and Russia is too cold and too poor and he wanted to conquer new battlefields where the casualties were metaphoric. But I know of five men and three women he personally cut an ear off of. This is not a man who prefers metaphoric bloodshed, no matter how much time has passed. Latveria is merely a rest station on the climb to the summit. Do you know what he says when asked why he chose Latveria? He says that Russians are constitutionally incapable of functioning in a free society, that they went from Tsars to the Party and now the last twenty years have proven that they don't know what to do when presented with control over their own lives and destinies. So he chose a place where nobody is free, but the weather is nicer and the food is better."

Templeton-Graham's theory was that Lukin has been cultivating his own cult of personality within Russia's elite. Not the oligarchs, the big fish and bold names who lived and died by Putin's pleasure whether they were in St. Petersburg or London, but the ones with the real power if not necessarily the real money or titles: the CIOs and CFOs, not the CEOs, the under-ministers and deputy secretaries, those who would either eventually be promoted to power or would continue to wield it behind the curtains. He was filling their heads with talk of a future great Russia, nationalism without the taint of xenophobia, which was ironic because Lukin was a proper racist himself. Lukin's new Russia would herald a new golden age, unpolluted by the corruption and decadence of Putin's new Tsardom, an oligarchy of the worthy.

"Straight out of a HYDRA press release," Natasha said sourly. 

"Indeed," Templeton-Graham agreed. "But without the globalism. A very Russian-flavored version, preferably accomplished by straining out the Caucasus populations and the Muslims and other undesirables, but he could live with them if he had to. He's spent long enough in Latveria to appreciate how Baron von Doom has built up a solid foundation of nationalism without it curdling into jingoism, at least in public."

Natasha left Portugal gifted with several bottles of fine port and a long list of names of people and companies Templeton-Graham thought Lukin had already enlisted in his private army. 

She went to Paris from Portugal, having a few things to take care of after she and James had left so suddenly, then stayed for an extra day because Clint was going to be there on a layover between New York and Algiers because yes, he'd been punted right into the hunt for Belova. 

She hadn't spoken to James every day she'd been away, but they were exchanging texts and emails regularly. His arm was fixed, something to do with the interface Tony had had to redesign. Otherwise, SHIELD was making him crazy by telling him that they had a lead on Belova and then they didn't, he'd had an amazingly awkward conversation with Miranda Tung, and Tony and Pepper were going to Chicago next Thursday for an event Stark Industries was hosting and then they would drive out to Wyoming for the weekend. 

Steve was showing small improvements, which mostly meant that he was becoming a more difficult patient and, not unrelated, Peggy had told James that they were letting Steve's hair grow out a little. He still was still essentially non-communicative, but he'd started turning his head away from things he didn't want (he was being fed orally now, purees and liquids, to mixed success) and making more use of his limbs, which he still had no real control of. He was being classed for the time being at infant-level -- at least that was the layperson explanation -- but the neurologists had noted differences between the scans done when he'd first woken and the most recent set. They wouldn't give anyone an official reason to hope, but it was something, anything, they could hang on to. 

James was probably going out to Wyoming soon -- there wasn't anything he needed to be in New York for so long as the analysts couldn't find Belova and the doctors wanted to see what kind of influence he might have on Steve's development. 

She told Clint all of this when she saw him. They rented a hotel room for the night -- two beds -- and that required her telling him about her and James, especially because Tony already knew and that information really should come from her. 

"I'm glad for you," Clint said as she poured out one of the port bottles into the hotel room tumblers. "I'm not _surprised_ \-- you two were pretty obviously kiss-or-kill from the get-go. But I'm happy for more than just not having to help you hide the body."

She gave him a nod of appreciation as she handed over one of the tumblers. 

"He making you happy?" Clint asked, losing the smug grin and watching her carefully. "He's a complicated part of your past, which isn't always so much fun in the present. And he's still bugfuck crazy, even if he's getting better."

Natasha gave him a proper smile. "I'm happy. Things are still complicated, perhaps even more so, but I'm happy."

Clint held up his tumbler and she raised hers so that they could clink them together and drink. 

"Good," Clint said. "Because I'm still gonna have to give him the _Some Kind of Wonderful_ 'you break her heart I break your face' talk, but I'd rather not have to back up that threat because this is the guy who shot me twice for kicks."

Natasha arched an eyebrow. "I will take care of any necessary face-breaking myself. He only shot me once."

Conversation inevitably turned back to Steve, which made them a little maudlin, especially after a couple of tumblers of port. Clint thought that if Steve didn't progress much, if this was how it was going to be, then maybe they should move him back to New York. There were conspiracy theories about Captain America still being alive and sightings like Elvis, but the world had accepted Steve's death, mourned, and moved on except for the occasional ratings-chaser television news editorial about why his killer had not yet been brought to justice. 

"The plan worked, nobody's looking for him, and he shouldn't have to spend the rest of his life surrounded by just Peggy and strangers," Clint said, leaving unsaid the part that it would be just strangers at some point, earlier than later. 

"As far as Steve understands right now, there's no difference between Agent Hochimura and Peggy and Tony and Joanne-the-night-nurse," she pointed out quietly. 

"That's not the point and you know it," Clint retorted with some heat, then relaxed. "Peggy would love to get back to civilization and Tony would turn over as much of Stark Tower as Steve needed."

"I wouldn't even take a bet on Tony offering to do just that when he goes out there," Natasha agreed. 

The following morning, her Paris-to-New York ticket was exchanged for a Paris-to-Rome boarding pass because an old case, unrelated to anything to do with Steve or Belova or Lukin or HYDRA, had reared its head. 

"You keep asking to be sent to Paris because it's a good gateway to other places," Tapper reminded her when she expressed frustration. "Don't get pissy when your bullshit magically turns into truth."

By the time she got back to New York, James was already in Wyoming. She was surprised by the depth of her disappointment. 


	11. Chapter 11

Natasha looked over at her seatmate, currently fidgeting with his seatbelt and looking out the airplane window. "You can't possibly be nervous about flying."

Thor turned to her, chin raised. "This is not flying," he answered indignantly. "This is being conducted through the air by a pilot of unknown skill in a conveyance of unverified integrity."

Natasha had been back in New York for two days when she'd been called in and asked to escort Thor to Wyoming. He'd been asking to visit Steve and Fury was apparently worried that if Thor were put off any longer, he'd fly there himself. There'd been no actual attempt to prevent Thor from visiting, just that it was a timing thing. He would have to travel via the same route as any of the other visitors not Tony or Pepper and so he would need a companion, at least the first time. Of the list of people who knew about Wyoming, Clint had just left to go to Algeria and neither Fury nor Hill nor Tapper had been free, so Thor had had to wait for Natasha to return. 

"Would you feel better if you met the pilot?" Natasha asked, half seriously and half curiously. For all that she had grown accustomed to Steve's and now James's attempts to get used to life in modern times, she had far less of a grasp of how Thor handled Midgard. He didn't spent a whole lot of time with the rest of them, preferring to give Jane Foster the greatest portion of his visits to Earth, but what downtime he had spent with the Avengers, it had mostly been with everyone together or a few times with Steve alone and so she'd had relatively little one-on-one time with him over the years. Which, she supposed, was about to change because it was a long trip to Wyoming.

"No, I would not feel better," Thor admitted, deflating a little. He was dressed in civvies, jeans and a t-shirt under a v-neck sweater and a crocheted hat on his head that did wonders to turn him from alien prince to hunky nervous flier. Natasha had not missed the way the flight attendants made sure to get an eyeful every time they came down the aisle; none of them had yet offered to soothe his fears, mostly because they hadn't figured out what her relationship to him was. With Steve, she had usually made some possessive gesture that bought him space, since he'd otherwise try to bear it stoically even though it made him uncomfortable, but Thor either didn't notice or, more likely, didn't mind the attention. His heart was Jane's, but his ego could accommodate the appreciation of others.

The plane finally pushed back from the gate and they started taxiing slowly toward the runway. It was Newark Airport, which was congested on a good day and this hadn't been a good day, so they were fifteenth in line for takeoff, the pilot announced.

"Tony and Pepper got in yesterday," she volunteered. They'd left from Chicago directly after the fundraiser for STEM education in a used Honda SUV bought expressly for the purpose. Natasha wasn't sure of the details of the trip; Clint had been the one to do the planning with them and he hadn't said much about it in Paris, just that it was about as practical as could be hoped for in that situation.

Thor, not turning away from looking out the window, grunted acknowledgment. "It will be good for them to see him," he said. "They are friends long parted and Tony, I believe, does not have so very many that one could disappear without the lack being keenly felt."

Which was true for more than just Tony, but she didn't feel like exposing herself like that.

Thor was reassuring himself by watching the view from the runway, so Natasha closed her eyes until they were at cruising altitude. When she opened them, Thor was reading a book in some Scandinavian language.

"Icelandic," he offered, holding up the book so that she could see the cover, which meant nothing to her except that it had a bird on it. "It is a language very similar to my own. Now that I have mastered the alphabet, I find it easier to read in this than in English, a language that is quite capricious in its written form."

Natasha chuckled knowingly. "Yeah, it took me a while to pick up, too," she agreed. "There are so many exceptions to every rule, you wonder why they have rules."

They passed the flight in companionable quiet. Thor had a multi-course lunch packed by the 44th Street commissary because, as aboard the Helicarrier, he was everyone's favorite Avenger. Even when Steve had been active, Thor had been the one everyone had been willing to do anything for because he was charming and boisterous and acted like a prince among favorite servants and courtiers. Steve had generally gotten what he'd wanted because nobody had wanted to disappoint Captain America, but Thor got everything out of genuine affection. Natasha, neither loved nor especially even liked among the SHIELD personnel, made do with the roasted vegetables and mozzarella hero from the deli around the corner from her apartment, although Thor did give her one of his coconut-chocolate cookies.

She called James when they landed. "Everyone's sleeping," he reported with bemusement. Tony and Pepper were still recovering from the drive and a morning with Steve, Steve in turn was taking his regular nap, and Peggy was dozing in her chair by Steve's bed after insisting that no, she did not need a rest. "Everyone should be up by the time you guys get here. If not, we'll play some of Jorgensen's workout music really loudly."

How had Tony and Pepper taken seeing Steve? "Hard," James admitted. "I know they knew all of the details, but seeing it up close and personal... You know what it's like."

She did, in some ways better than James because she'd had that blank look turned on her while James was still his favorite person. Peggy and the nurses were apparently recognized now, but that was different from _remembering_.

"We'll see you in a few hours," she told him. "Don't scare everyone awake."

Thor handled riding in cars with aplomb and familiarity, adjusting the seat to accommodate his long legs and asking permission to play around with the radio. "Jane says that it is custom for the driver to choose the music, but she generally exercises her authority as a veto rather than as a positive commandment."

Thor found a rock station that carried all the way into Wyoming and mostly looked out the window as she drove. He'd possibly seen more of America than she had simply by following Jane Foster from post to post, but she wasn't sure. Thor was a force of nature, possibly even literally, but he wore stillness and quiet with surprising ease. 

They did discuss Steve briefly, however; Thor said that he had been warned that Steve was "simple" and Natasha agreed that that was the case.

"Does it bother him?" Thor asked.

Natasha paused before answering. "I don't think he understands what he's lost," she said, thinking of his default expression, guileless and only sometimes curious. "That might change, but for right now, no, he doesn't seem frustrated or upset by what he can't do or can't remember."

"A small blessing," Thor mused sadly. "He will not know me?"

"Most likely not," Natasha agreed. "He didn't recognize me or Clint or Peggy and I'm pretty sure it will have been the same for Tony and Pepper. The only person he's recognized so far is James -- Bucky."

Thor hadn't been around while they'd been chasing James, but in the wake of the tumult over the Tesseract, Thor had most certainly learned the story. 

"Even if he never regains his physical prowess, I hope that he recalls enough to see that he has friends in addition to his brother," Thor said. "To know that comfort can make the greatest infirmities disappear, even for a moment."

"We should all be so lucky," she replied. But she knew, for Steve, it would be true, for more than just a moment. He had never forgotten his life before the serum, when he had been frail and small and weak. He'd handle a permanent disability better than any of them would, of that she'd never doubted even as she'd been sure he was the least likely to suffer one. Except now he had.

Thor needed about five seconds to charm the security detail when they arrived -- "the noble men and women who stand faithful guard over our fallen comrade!" -- and then it was up to Steve's room, where Tony was sitting in Peggy's chair, his laptop open on the little table she used. Both were pulled over to Steve's bedside.

"Hey," Tony greeted them, still looking tired and subdued in ways that had nothing to do with the long drive from Chicago. He looked over at Steve. "Hey, Rogers, more people for you to ignore in favor of shiny objects."

"Hey, Steve," Natasha said loudly and he looked up and she was hit anew by the grief of what had been lost when he had been shot because he glanced at them without even the faintest glimmer of recognition, then returned his attention to the brightly colored soft blocks on his lap. Pepper and Tony had brought baby toys, which was both appropriate and heartbreaking for being so.

Thor went over to the side of the bed and reached out to cup Steve's chin, gently forcing his head back up so that he could look Steve in the eyes. Steve was getting better with holding eye contact, Natasha knew, getting into staring contests with James but mixed with everyone else and positively fidgety for the NP, but he returned Thor's gaze here and didn't try to pull away.

"Hello, friend Steven," Thor said to him in a gentle tone, smiling. "It is good to see you."

Steve smiled back a little, which was another new trick James had told her about. Steve didn't necessarily mean anything by it -- he was mimicking expressions -- and it didn't look like any of Steve's old smiles, but it had been a milestone the neurologists had been pleased by nonetheless.

"I approve of your new appearance," Thor said, letting go of Steve's chin and stroking his own beard. Steve reached out clumsily in the general direction of Thor's jaw and Thor intercepted it, holding Steve's one hand in both of his. "I believe, however, that your first words will be to request assistance in returning you to your former one."

Steve smiled again, because Thor was smiling again, and Natasha had to turn away because it hurt too much to see. She looked over at Tony, who was watching them with an expression of such naked grief on his face it shocked her, even though it shouldn't have. They had such an odd friendship, but it had been -- was -- a deep one that nobody would have seen coming at their first meeting, or even at their third. They were everything the other professed to despise, and yet they had an unbreakable bond. Natasha hadn't been around for Tony's dark period, his fall into a bottle after the Triple Bombings, but she'd heard enough from Clint about what Steve had done for Tony and, especially, for Pepper. They probably hadn't ever imagined that there would be a situation where they'd need to reciprocate, let alone where they would want to but couldn't for reasons that were practical but cruel.

Steve made a noise and pulled away from Thor and tried to lean so that he could see past Natasha; both Tony and Thor reached out to steady him as Natasha looked behind her. Steve's hearing was still very sharp because he'd heard Peggy and Pepper coming down the hall from the elevator before anyone else had. As soon as they entered the room, Peggy leaning on Pepper's arm, Tony got up and closed the laptop, ready to return Peggy's space to her. 

"You're still working on the blocks, Steve?" Pepper asked with a cheerfulness Natasha could tell was false, but it was the 'good fake,' the cheer she put on when she didn't want you to see how unhappy she really was and not the one where she was being passive-aggressive and only partially cared if you noticed. "Good, I'm glad you liked them."

The blocks were jewel-toned and the size of grapefruits; they were fuzzy except for the faces that had mirrors on them or plastic bubbles behind which little plastic bits rattled around. Some of the fuzzy sides had letters, some had numbers, some had shapes. Steve held the red one in his large hands and rubbed his thumbs back and forth, apparently enjoying the texture. 

"Big Boy here hasn't put them down," Tony reported as Pepper came over to him and leaned against him; he put his free arm , the one not holding the laptop, around her waist to pull her further in. Using each other for support; it still sometimes surprised Natasha how different they were together than when she'd seen them during her Natalie days. A lot of the time, it was actually hard to tell; the banter wasn't very different and Tony was still dumping crap on Pepper to fix. But sometimes, it really was entirely different and almost all of that was because Tony had put in the effort to change. "If he keeps it up, he'll have some manual dexterity back by next week. So it will either get a lot easier or a lot harder to feed him because he'll have a better chance when he grabs for the spoon."

Feeding Steve was still a work in progress; he was generally a good and eager eater, but there'd been a few choking incidents because he wasn't always chewing thoroughly, so his progress was still somewhere around soft foods and a lot of milk. James had reported that he'd had a little pizza the other night and that had turned out okay. ("Now we know he's brain-damaged," James had mock-lamented. "Brooklyn boy wolfing down pizza from _Wyoming_.")

"Bucky is in the comms room," Peggy told Natasha, who'd been looking behind her to see if he were following Peggy and Pepper. "SHIELD called and had a few questions for him."

Natasha nodded; he'd been getting asked about the list she'd brought back from Portugal. They'd laughed together at a couple of the names -- one was a drunk who'd shot himself in the foot during a training exercise, but was now in a key post in Brussels because he'd married a general's very homely daughter.

"Go rescue him," Peggy exhorted. "He's been in there for a while."

James was undoubtedly not in need of rescue -- he had long ago mastered terminating interview sessions because they had reached the point of no longer being productive -- but she did want to see him and the room was starting to feel too suffocating. Tony and Pepper were both still _reeling_ a day after their arrival and even if Thor was taking it all with remarkable calm and royal self-possession and Peggy her usual indomitable self, it still made the room feel close because it forced her to face her own feelings.

Steve was now re-examining the blocks with Thor, who was turning them over in his hands, and Tony looked too worn down to even offer up a crude remark, so she nodded and left without a word. 

She left her bag in front of James's room, then went back downstairs, greeting the agents she passed en route to the comms room. She was not completely surprised to find James sitting there with the screens off and his eyes closed. He'd started at the opening of the door and stayed standing once he'd realized who it was.

Peggy had perhaps known what she was doing, the crafty old broad. Sending Natasha down to rescue James from himself, not from SHIELD. 

"Hey," he greeted her as she entered his embrace, returning it. "You guys been here long?" 

"Not very," she said, head on his right shoulder as he rubbed her back, offering comfort she definitely wanted but would never have asked for out loud. Or maybe seeking it in his own way. "Everyone's up with Steve, who only has eyes for his toys." 

"He hasn't let those blocks out of his sight all day," James said and she could hear him smile. The hand on her back stilled and he just held her close and it felt good and she squeezed back. "He was more interested in them than eating, which meant lunch took forever. Thankfully, I wasn't the one feeding him. Tony had to land an entire air force's worth of airplanes to get him to finish." 

"How are you doing?" she asked, since she already knew how Tony was.

He shrugged, careful not to dislodge her head on his shoulder. "It's been up and down. I think my old 'me-and-Steve-against-the-world' instincts came back a little strong when I found out most of the Avengers were showing up at once, but Peggy knocked that out of me pretty quickly."

Natasha wondered yet again how he could possibly have ever thought that there wasn't enough Bucky Barnes left to make the effort worthwhile. 

"What's so funny?" 

She kissed his neck, making him shiver. "You." 

They stayed as they were for another few minutes before going back upstairs. Thor and Steve were still playing with the blocks, with assistance from Pepper. They were trying to get Steve to show some pattern recognition and put the sides with the mirrors up, and when that didn't work, they settled for identifying the faces he did hold up in English and what was maybe Old Norse. Peggy was sitting with her eyes closed. Tony was gone. 

"He went to go work downstairs for a bit," Pepper said, not pretending it was anything other than what it was, since nobody believed Tony had brought real work with him. Pepper bit her lip quickly and Natasha knew what that meant, something Pepper didn't necessarily feel comfortable sharing, but thought should be told. "He's been trying to figure out a way to get Extremis to help Steve."

Which wasn't as bad as could have been expected under the circumstances, not when Tony had previously suggested asking Johann Schmidt for the recipe he'd intended to use with the Gundestrup Cauldron so as to get Steve's consciousness into another body. But Natasha could understand why Pepper was worried; Tony had a habit of fixating on things, Extremis being a prime example, and his fixations, if left unchecked, could quickly get out of control, as it had after the Triple Bombings. 

"But all of the reasons why it's impossible are still valid," Natasha pointed out. Steve wasn't genetically compatible with Extremis's design; there had been a long talk about it right after the shooting and Tony had admitted that there was no way to use it and get an outcome they desired. But even if they could use it, even if they could fix Steve's brain, make it perfectly undamaged, there was no guarantee that they would be getting _Steve_ back.

"I know," Pepper admitted. She turned to look down at Steve, carding his hair with her fingers; he moved into the motion like a cat. "But if it stays on the right side of coping mechanism, then it's okay. It's something for him to do when there is nothing else we can do."

Pepper confessing her real fear, that it would not stay a good coping mechanism and would devolve into obsession, did not cover up her slip into the plural. Tony was wearing his pain on his sleeve, but Pepper, as always, was holding herself together so that things could get done. She'd grieve in private and Tony, Natasha hoped, would be there for her. Steve wasn't there to help this time.

Steve grabbed the green block from Thor and held it up to James.

"Yeah, punk, I've seen 'em," James said. "Everyone's seen 'em. Didn't you also get a couple of other presents, too? Why don't you let Miss Potts show you the book she brought you, hunh?"

Steve handed the green block back to Thor instead, who thanked him as if given a gift beyond price, and clumsily picked up the blue one.

"Well, the part of you that does whatever the hell you want is working okay," James sighed affectionately. He was handling everything best for more reasons than just he was the most familiar with Steve's current limitations, Natasha understood. Taking care of Steve was familiar to him, possibly his only instinct that didn't reduce down to violence, and if he didn't have any idea about how he would get by in this new post-Winter Soldier world, he knew very well how to take care of Steve.

"Language, Bucky," Peggy chided lightly, apparently not dozing after all. Her eyes stayed closed, though.

"Steve's heard me cuss," James pointed out. "And don't think I'm gonna buy for a minute that the three ladies present are delicate enough to faint at hearing it."

Felicity, the day nurse, came in a few minutes later to shoo everyone out so that they could run a few tests and take care of personal maintenance for Steve. They could hear Felicity chatting in a sing-song voice to him as they left. Thor, gallant that he was, escorted Peggy to the stairs and down.

Dinner preparations were underway in the kitchen; there had been talk about bringing in a chef now that Steve was awake and eating, but the security detail agents, who'd been cooking for themselves all along, had actually asked to keep the responsibility themselves and, with Peggy's support, they had. The detail ate remarkably well -- Natasha was a little surprised how well, considering she'd been on long-term SHIELD assignments that had never graduated past takeout and the local version of Lean Cuisine. But the detail cooked their own food from scratch, so adding Steve to the list of the hungry had not been a hardship. Had instead been something else they could do for him beyond keep him safe. There was a nutritionist consultant back in New York, someone who only knew that he was providing guidelines for a mentally incapacitated adult with Steve's requirements, but no idea that it was actually Steve himself or that SHIELD was in fact the client.

Steve was getting a variation on tonight's meal, a selection of Indian curries that made the entire downstairs smell like a restaurant in Mumbai. There was a discussion about whether Steve's chick peas should be mashed into the spinach, whether he could handle cauliflower, whether anything was too spicy, and how much yogurt he should get, but who was going to feed him had already been decided. Tony took the tray up himself, looking a little less tightly-wound than he had earlier.

The rest of them ate in the dining room with the security agents and the topics of conversation were wide-ranging and frequently hilarious because it turned out that Thor had opinions about American football and would take on all challengers with the same gusto he fought every other battle.

"Agent Romanova?" Gallagher, the agent apparently on comms duty, came in while Thor was insisting that some tackle made by a Patriots player last week had been legal despite a ruling otherwise by the referees. "You or Mister Barnes are being requested by Commander Hill."

James, next to her, made a move to get up, but Natasha stilled him with a hand on his shoulder. "I'll take this," she said and she could see the relief in his eyes.

"We have a confirmed eyewitness of Belova in Rosslyn," Hill said without preamble. "No, this isn't yet another a false alarm. We have three -- so far -- sane and credible people who recognized the photo of her and we're working off of that. We have the name she was using for the operation, so we might be able to get enough to be actionable."

Natasha nodded. "But you're not going to drag James back to New York unless you know for sure," she asked, making it clear it wasn't a question.

"No," Hill agreed sourly. "If he moves, it's for real."

Natasha went back to the dining room to finish her dinner. James looked at her questioningly, but she shook her head. It would keep.

Clint had offered up his home to handle the overflow of guests, but with Natasha now sharing James's room and Thor volunteering to sleep in one of the barracks rooms, there was no need. Tony and Pepper spent the evening with Steve, since they would have to leave tomorrow, and Thor, who was staying on, went out with one of the patrols to see how they operated and what the land looked like at night. Natasha spent the evening curled up against James on one of the living room couches as the off-duty agents had their Saturday Night Movies, a double feature of _Snow White_ and _Pacific Rim_ because Agent Hassan, who was this week's film selector, apparently had a very warped sense of humor. The detail agents were comfortable enough around James to ask if he and Steve had seen _Snow White_ in the theater the first time (yes, although James hadn't wanted to go, but Steve had made such a fuss about a feature-length Disney cartoon that he'd given in). Thor and Tony joined them for the second film; Steve was asleep and Pepper was exhausted. They sat on the floor with their own bowls of popcorn and, since almost everyone present had been in Manhattan for either the Battle of New York or the fight against the mechas after the Triple Bombings, they joined in the group critiquing of how a pretend world had handled an alien invasion. Tony had plenty to say about the technology and the acts of desperate heroism, most of it indignant and outraged and funny because of it, and Thor's comparisons of the Kaiju to creatures of his own world was almost as entertaining. James, arm slung casually around Natasha's shoulder as she leaned against his side, was laughing along with everyone else, at ease and relaxed, possibly more so than she could remember him being around a group of people. It was a good evening and, for once, there wasn't some disaster lurking in the darkness waiting for them to drop their guard.

The morning was peaceful, in fact, and began with pancakes that Thor had helped prepare. Thor wasn't a cook per se, but he had a limited repertoire that could be split entirely between what he'd made in the field during his campaigns on his home world and what Jane Foster liked here on Earth. Natasha had been willing to admit up front that Thor could cook more and better than she could, which had made him smile. 

"These are really good," Tony marveled. "Seriously, what do you put in them?"

"Nutmeg," Thor told him. "Not too much, else it becomes foul."

After breakfast, James and Natasha spent the better part of ninety minutes on a video conference with SHIELD discussing more names Templeton-Graham had provided and a few more that the Russia Desk had suggested. Pepper and Tony stayed with Steve, allowing Peggy to tag along on the Walmart run to Cheyenne so that she could have a few hours (not in Walmart) to do whatever she wanted, and Thor very carefully did not break any of the agents who sparred with him in the backyard.

Pepper and Tony had to leave by the afternoon to get back to Chicago by dawn; Pepper had to fly to a meeting in Tokyo and Tony had a demonstration at Naval Station Great Lakes. In respect of that, lunch was an informal picnic of all of them in Steve's room. Steve, with his blocks hidden in a box next to his bed, was more attentive to his surroundings, accepting potato chips from Tony despite already having eaten his lunch and even going so far to reach for one, although his coordination kept him from getting it. With the exception of Bruce, it was as close as they'd come to a full Avengers reunion, something Natasha was sure they all noticed and yet nobody brought up. 

Peggy got back before Tony and Pepper left and she and Pepper and James sat in the dining room for one final in-person discussion about Steve's care. Natasha suspected that they were starting a plan to get Steve back to New York, but she didn't ask. She hadn't asked about the other discussions the three of them had had over the weekend, although James had volunteered a few details and expressed relief and gratitude that Pepper and Peggy were including him as a full participant, since legally, and probably morally, he had no right to anything, let alone everything.

"Of course you have a moral right to be a part of things," Natasha had chided him. "Even if your name isn't on the piece of paper, both of them know who you are to him and who he is to you."

With the three of them now ensconced somewhere downstairs and Thor on the phone with Jane, Natasha went upstairs to Steve, carrying one of the laptops so she could get some work done. Tony was there and the two of them were flipping through one of the books they'd brought him, a board book with holes for Steve to try to stick his fingers through and textures for him to feel. Steve wasn't following anyone's verbal directions yet, so Tony was guiding his hand as the story progressed. Natasha stayed in the doorway and watched, not wanting to intrude.

"First time I've read a dead tree book in years," Tony said quietly as Steve rubbed his fingers over what was supposed to feel like cat fur. Tony looked up at her with a wry expression that usually prefaced a cuttingly sarcastic remark, but he only smiled and looked down at Steve. "For you, once again, I go back to the stone age. But I am going to build you some very flashy toys, Rogers, lots of bright lights and loud noises. Barnes is gonna kill me if Peggy doesn't first, but you'll love 'em. For once."

Because Tony knew better than anyone how much Steve didn't get along with modern technology and had never given up trying to change Steve's mind. The futurist lost more battles than he won against the man out of time, but Tony had yet to actually concede defeat. 

Natasha had sat down and opened the laptop to get some virtual chores done when Pepper came upstairs to tell Tony it was time to go. Tony and Steve had gone back to the blocks, so Tony handed Pepper the blue and purple ones as she came into the room and Tony went to go get their things and put them in the car. "No cheating, Rogers," Tony turned around and called from the doorway, pointing his finger. "Pepper knows the rules."

There had been no rules, of course, beyond Steve doing whatever he wanted and Tony going along with it. Which had arguably been how they'd operated before Steve had gotten shot, Natasha mused, so maybe Pepper did know the rules. 

Pepper came over to Steve's bedside and he watched her approach, hands still rubbing the red fuzzy block. She put the ones she'd been given down and took his hands off of the block and held them between her own. 

"I'm sorry our visit has been so short," she told him and Natasha watched, knowing she probably shouldn't but that Pepper wouldn't care because her attention was entirely on Steve. Who was looking at her with full attention but no comprehension. "I'm sorry it has taken us so long to get here. We won't take so long next time. And maybe soon, you can come live with us so that everyone can see you -- and play with your blocks with you -- and be more a part of your life. As we once were."

She paused to collect herself, letting go of Steve's hands so that she could wipe her eyes. Then she touched his cheek with her hand and he leaned into it -- he did that a lot, Natasha noticed, which made her wonder about how touch-starved Steve might have been before he'd been shot. "I love you very much, Steve, and I hope that until you understand the words, you will understand the gestures." And then she leaned forward and kissed his forehead. "Goodbye for now."

Natasha dropped her eyes back to her laptop screen, but Pepper touched her shoulder as she passed and she looked back up. She'd had enough experience as Natalie to still be able to read Pepper's expressions, so when she saw this one, she nodded. "I will." 

It was a request to look after Steve, but it was mostly a request to find the people responsible for this and make them pay. 

Natasha heard Pepper say something to Tony in the hallway, too low for her to make out the words, but Tony appeared in the room a minute later. 

"So this is goodbye for now, Old Man," Tony said as approached the bed on the other side from where Pepper had. Steve watched him, smiling because Tony was smiling, unable to understand how false Tony's expression truly was. "Next time, loud noises and flashing lights and maybe a robot or two to keep you on your toes, eh? Dummy can have a little brother or sister. Or maybe you can have Dummy for a while if you come back to New York. We'll talk about it." 

His voice broke on the last couple of words and he stopped talking, leaning forward a little so that he could rest his hand on the raised back of Steve's bed. Steve took the opportunity to lean his head forward to touch his forehead to Tony's. It something he'd picked up from James, who touched foreheads with him every evening when saying goodnight. But it totally undid Tony. 

"I miss you, too," he got out in barely a whisper as he pulled away. He walked out of the room with a wave to Natasha and tears in his eyes. 

When Natasha came downstairs -- Felicity had asked for some privacy for Steve -- she noted the piles of sundries and food and whatever random crap the Walmart adventure had brought back. There was a frisbee, some board games (the detail loved board games), and two remote-controlled helicopters and the biggest container of pretzels she'd ever seen, and that was just what she'd spotted without going into the dining room.

"We got some things for Captain Rogers," Gruning said, maybe a little shyly, gesturing to the living room. "Ms. Carter said we should wait a few days until he's tired of the blocks so he'll appreciate them more." 

Natasha went into the living room and found a small pile of toys and a couple of board books. There was a brightly colored train engine with wheels that rolled and something that looked like an abacus but probably wasn't and a patchwork plush ball about the size of a volleyball that had different designs on each face. 

"I think that's wonderful," Natasha told Gruning, who had followed her in, with honest sincerity. "He'll get a big kick out of them when you give them to him."

Natasha continued in to the kitchen, where she had thought Peggy would be but instead was just confronted with more piles of food that had yet to be put away. The perishables were gone, but giant bags of flour and sugar and skyscrapers of cereal boxes and pasta and a mountain of potato chip bags, among other things, remained. 

"Have you seen Peggy?" Natasha asked Hochimura, who was on his way outside. 

"She's refereeing the fight," Hochimura replied with a grin. 

"Of course she is," Natasha agreed, because it was Peggy. "Who is fighting and where?" 

Hochimura's grin broke into a giant smile. "Mister Barnes and Thor are in the backyard."

Natasha took a beat. "Right. I'll get my jacket." 

When she stepped outside, Natasha found everyone who wasn't on duty standing or sitting around Peggy, who was in a padded outdoor chair right below the bottom of the deck stairs. Beyond them, out in the open part of the yard, were James and Thor, wearing t-shirts and track pants and fighting with bo staffs.

James's left arm was metallic again, which threw her for a moment until she reminded herself that Tony had given James's prosthetic armor, a vibranium alloy that seeped out of tiny holes in the arm like a liquid and solidified in microseconds, in exchange for letting him keep ("borrow") James's old arm. It was based on the Extremis technology somehow, although Natasha had not even bothered to get an explanation, and James had requested it because he hadn't liked the vulnerability of the skin-covered arm. It was partially psychological for him -- he felt more vulnerable with the prosthetic appearing normal -- but it also protected the arm and, he'd admitted, there were going to be times when looking like the Winter Soldier was an advantage. 

Right now, however, he could have looked like Mickey Mouse for all the good the intimidation factor was doing him. They were surprisingly evenly matched, mostly because a bo staff wasn't either of their primary weapons and was only something they would have grabbed when nothing else was to hand. Which was probably why they were using them. Thor was stronger, but James was quicker -- not that Thor wasn't fast, just that James was incredibly agile and willing and able to do things like brace the staff on the ground and launch himself into the air feet first. 

The match continued on even after Thor broke James's staff with a brutal overhand blow, turning the pieces into escrima sticks; James held them with the jagged edges out so that they'd be weapons. James held his own and managed to draw blood and cries of surprised pain from Thor, but eventually his human physiology, augmented arm or not, fell victim to Thor's superhuman stamina. Thor was getting tired too and had taken a more defensive stance by that point, using the bo staff's length to keep James and his shorter weapons at bay and frequently sweeping James's feet, forcing James to jump or move, further depleting his strength. Until finally James couldn't get out of the way fast enough and fell, Thor quickly pinning him at the chest with the staff. 

Peggy called the match to great applause. Thor reached out and hauled James up and into a hug. 

"An excellent match," Thor announced. "We could use a drink." 

"You could use a shower," Peggy replied. "Both of you. Celebratory beers after you are presentable."

Thor gave Peggy a deep bow with a ridiculous flourish while James just saluted jauntily. He smiled at Natasha as he passed her on the way to the house, looking exhausted and satisfied. This fight had challenged him in ways that sparring with the SHIELD agents would not, allowing him to use his abilities to their fullest without pulling his punches and for a purpose that could not darken his conscience later. 

After everyone was cleaned, there were beers handed out and the story of the fight was already growing into a legend as it was retold over dinner. Steve had napped late and so he was alert and eager for dinner when Natasha carried up the tray for James, who was still sore because Thor had whacked him hard right where the prosthetic and his shoulder met. 

"You want the honors tonight?" he asked as she set down the tray. "It'll be easy, he's hungry."

Natasha froze. Tony or Pepper had been taking care of Steve's meals while they were here, although Thor had gotten an afternoon snack. She hadn't asked to do it and wasn't sure she wanted to; it was a further acknowledgment of Steve's vulnerability and every single one already had cut her deeply. But Steve was looking at her hopefully and James was watching her with a more complicated look. This wasn't a test, but turning him down would be a failure on her part. 

She tamped down her cowardice and smiled. "You're just asking because it's tomato sauce and you don't want to get splattered." 

James grinned back at her, but she could see everything else in his eyes. She turned back to Steve. "Okay, on with your bib so we can get this show started." 

Dinner was linguine bolognese, Steve's pasta cut into small pieces before saucing, and mixed vegetables, since the salad everyone else had gotten would be too much. 

Feeding Steve was remarkably intimate, not in a sexual way at all. It was also funny, once she let go of the memories of Steve as he had been and focused on Steve as he was, which was nonetheless still someone who liked to eat. She was careful not to overload the spoon, made congratulatory noises when he chewed before he swallowed, paused for sips of apple juice, and found herself smiling because Steve was enjoying the experience. Within the limits of his capacity right now, he was having fun and she was responsible for it and she felt lighter for having been so. 

"Thank you," she told James after returning the empty bowl of apple cobbler to the tray. 

When she brought the tray back down, Peggy and the off-duty agents were sitting in the dining room playing something called "Cards Against Humanity" that had them all laughing uproariously and seemed to require making the most awful and (and horribly funny) jokes they could. Thor found her in the kitchen while she was rinsing off Steve's plates and putting them in the dishwasher. 

"Not your speed?" she asked. 

"I do not mind the bawdiness," Thor said with an indifferent shrug. "But I will admit that I do not understand most of the references."

Natasha smiled knowingly. She'd had her share of being the only one not getting the joke. "You can come upstairs and watch a movie with us if you'd like."

"Cartoons?" Thor asked hopefully. 

"Puppets," Natasha replied, not hiding her amusement. "They come very highly recommended."

She gave Thor a plate of Moskowitz's double-chocolate biscotti and some milk for Steve and carried the tea mugs up herself and the four of them watched _The Muppet Movie_ , which Steve had apparently seen before but that didn't count right now. It was silly and surprisingly sweet.

Shortly before four in the morning, they were woken up by Steve screaming at the top of his lungs. James was out of bed and running before Natasha had even processed what was going on, but she quickly followed. Joanne, the night nurse, and Agent Fallows, the night hallway guard, were already in Steve's room with the light on when she got there, a half-step ahead of everyone else because Steve was still screaming. James tried to still him, holding his face in his hands and trying to soothe him in low tones, and that at least got the screaming to stop. James sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling Steve into a hug and holding Steve's head to his shoulder, continuing the murmured words and rubbing Steve's back. 

It was heartbreaking to watch, for both of them. 

Natasha took a deep breath and turned to the crowd behind her, almost all of whom were carrying their service weapons because this was new, Steve hadn't made much noise at all, let alone the terrified shrieks they'd heard, and they had automatically assumed the worst, as their training had taught them they should have. "Okay, folks, show's over. Gold stars all around for the response time, but it's just a nightmare. Someone go and tell Peggy, but everyone else, thank you and back to where you were. Especially if it was bed." She stood there, waiting for the crowd to disperse, which it did, slowly. She caught Thor's eye and he nodded before going back downstairs; he'd check on Peggy, who would have undoubtedly heard the screams. 

The door to Steve's room was always open except when he was getting changed or bathed or examined, but Natasha pulled it closed behind her now, giving Fallows a challenging look as she did. She went back to her and James's room and grabbed his hoodie; he was wearing a t-shirt and pajama bottoms, perfectly decent, but not warm enough if he was going to be up for a while, which he undoubtedly was. She gave a soft knock on the door to Steve's room before she opened it, but left it open behind her. 

Steve startled and stirred when she entered, but put his head back on James's shoulder when he saw it was her. He was calm now, face still damp with tears, and breathing regularly with the odd whimper. Natasha put the sweatshirt on the chair closest to Steve's bed, where James could see it. He looked up at her and mouthed "thanks" and she nodded. 

Thor appeared in the doorway. "I have spoken to Ms. Carter," he said quietly, managing a smile and a little wave for Steve when he looked up before snuggling against James once more. "I will go back to her as I do not think she will be returning to sleep. This has been a bitter reminder of her infirmity, I suspect,"

Peggy, only downstairs, was too old and too feeble to have been able to join in with the posse running to Steve's aid. For all that she joked -- and occasionally was deadly serious -- about her age and its consequences, this would have been a brutal reminder she wouldn't want or need. 

"Thank you," Natasha said, meaning it. It wasn't that she ever forgot that Thor was a good man, but the occasional reminder nonetheless couldn't hurt. 

She stayed with James and Steve for another few minutes before a jaw-breaker of a yawn surprised her. "I'm going to go back to bed," she told James, who was heavy-lidded holding Steve -- he'd passed right out when they'd gone to bed, exhausted from his fight with Thor. 

It took her a few minutes to fall back asleep, but she did and when she next opened her eyes, it was almost nine. She went over to check on James and Steve and found them both lying on Steve's bed asleep, James's arm around Steve, whose head was tucked into the crook of his neck and shoulder, and a blanket over them both. Peggy was in her recliner, also asleep, and Thor was sitting in one of the other chairs reading his Icelandic novel and drinking what smelled like fresh coffee. He looked up and smiled at her, which she returned, then went back to his book. 

Downstairs, there was more coffee (and, courtesy of yesterday's visit to Cheyenne, a resupply of options not hazelnut or decaf) and fresh bread and honey and jars of jam picked up from a roadside farmstand nearby. Natasha was enjoying it all when Agent Skinner came in to the kitchen. "Is Mister Barnes still upstairs?" 

Natasha said yes, but he was still sleeping and shouldn't be disturbed. 

"It's Director Fury," Skinner replied. 

"All the more reason," Natasha said, enjoying Skinner's look of surprised horror. After all of her time here, Skinner should be less shocked at the casual disrespect; Peggy was hardly the paragon of meek obedience when it came to commands from Fury or Hill. "I'll take it." 

She stopped to refill her coffee cup and slather another slice of sourdough before going to the comms room. 

Fury frowned when he saw her. "This is something he really should hear."

"Then he'll hear it later," she told him, sitting down. "Steve had a bad night. They're both sleeping it off."

That shut Fury up, as expected. He nodded once, then told her that they'd completed their tracking of Belova's movements after the shooting. She had returned to her hotel in time for the 1pm checkout, then had been picked up by a car registered to the wife of a Latverian consular officer -- "actual driver unknown" -- and taken up to Philadelphia International Airport for a flight to Doomstadt.

"This is either a giant red herring or a giant fuck-you or a giant neon arrow," Fury said sourly. "I honestly can't decide. Whatever it is, it tells us that they think we're not too bright."

Natasha agreed and promised to tell James the moment he woke up, which would be sooner than later, and Fury should expect a response within an hour, two at most.

"How did the weekend go?" Fury asked. 

"It went," she said with a shrug, not wanting to get into everyone's private grief. The demands to get Steve shipped back to New York could surprise him later. "It was necessary and probably overdue and you can expect fallout."

James was downstairs by 10:30, letting Thor feed Steve breakfast once it was clear that Steve either didn't remember his nightmare or was no longer bothered by it. Natasha gave him Fury's message. He exhaled loudly, rubbing at his face. "I'm going to have to go to Latveria,"

There was a thump from upstairs and then Thor's loud laughter. 

"I didn't expect to mind it so much," James said, almost in wonderment. Natasha rolled her eyes and James smiled at her because yes, in this moment, he had realized how much had changed. 

They were back in the secure comms room a few minutes later. Fury was understandably unhappy with the idea of James going to Latveria. Natasha didn't think it was such a grand idea, either, but she was more of a realist when it came to the part that keeping James from going was going to be next to impossible. 

"We don't know who gave the orders to Belova," James told Fury after yet another expression of why this was a bad idea. "But someone either wants us to know it came out of Latveria or they don't care if we find out. Lukin will lie about it, but Doom won't. If he did this, he'll be happy to take credit, at least privately. And if he didn't, he will sure as shit want to know who did. You want to force Lukin to move faster than he wants? You get Doom to punt him out of Latveria."

That pretty much hit all of the SHIELD sweet spots, so while Fury and James argued about it some more, it was almost more for form's sake than anything else. Fury knew James was going with or without his blessing, so it was really a matter of negotiating terms. He was not, however, expecting Natasha to insist on going along. 

"You didn't have enough fun last time?" Fury spat out. But James wasn't arguing against her accompanying him and so Fury gave up, frustrated but resigned. He did, however, require that they return to New York for all mission prep, since while they could do some of it from Wyoming, it would be better done at 44th Street. James wasn't happy to be leaving Steve, especially after what had happened this morning, but when Fury reminded him that he was working on SHIELD's time, not his own, he acquiesced. 

They went upstairs to tell Peggy (and Steve) that they would be leaving tomorrow morning. Peggy frowned, but accepted the news. Thor, however, surprised them both by announcing his intention to stay in Wyoming until they returned. 

"It could be a few weeks," James warned, but half-heartedly. All of them knew that it would be a great thing for Steve -- and for Peggy. 

Thor brushed the concern aside. "T'is but a moment for me."

James spent the day with Steve, who was having a good day, as if the nightmare had never happened. As had become tradition, they both bid Steve goodnight and goodbye the night before their departure. Steve wouldn't understand what they were saying, but for James explaining what he was doing and why and promising to come back as quickly as possible, was important. 

It was important for Natasha, too, but she knew better than to say so. 


	12. Chapter 12

It took more than a week for James and Natasha to get a plan approved by Fury for the trip to Latveria. Fury wanted hard details, which wasn't what James was used to providing and clashed with what Natasha was realizing was a far more improvisational style than anyone at SHIELD was used to working with even considering the personalities of the Avengers. For James, everything after the flight to Sarajevo -- Belgrade was closer, but the Latverians watched that airport -- depended upon the situation on the ground and was left vague because of it. Fury was neither amused nor willing to put up with it -- "you might not have had to give a briefback as the Winter Soldier, but you sure as hell know how they're done, _Sergeant_ Barnes" -- and things got contentious at times as copy after copy got returned to them covered in notes that ranged from requests for specific details to "are you fucking kidding me?".

James was only half-kidding when he told her that he was starting to miss his old life. Natasha could sympathize to a point because she, too, had had to be broken to the bit of detailed advance planning. The Red Room had let its operatives use their own discretion so long as the job got done, but coming to SHIELD, she'd had to learn to explain what she was going to do before she did it, do it, then justify it afterward. At the start, Coulson had more or less had to play Twenty Questions with her to get an approvable plan cobbled together and she'd always let Clint handle that part when they'd worked together (in exchange for her writing up the AAR; fair was fair). But her sympathy was starting to stretch thin by the one week mark because James was stubbornly refusing to be precise in places where it was possible to be precise, even if they needed to do something else when that point arrived.

"What I don't understand is why you haven't just upped and left on your own," she told him at one of these points. "You're just fucking with him at this point and he knows it."

"I'm not fucking with him for the sake of fucking with him," James replied as they sat at his dining table with maps and notes at the other end from their takeout containers. "And if I am, it's mutual. You can't tell me you put up with this bullshit on a regular basis."

She couldn't, which was why she hadn't completely lost her temper with him yet. Fury _was_ pushing harder than any good controller of a field agent would -- and Fury had been both a great field agent and a superb controller -- and she didn't think it was just because he still didn't like that they were going to Latveria. This was a test for James, although she was still debating what the topic was and what would constitute a passing grade. It wasn't a test of his loyalty, at least with respect to whether he might be the best sleeper agent to ever infiltrate SHIELD or not. It might've been a test of his mental health, although Natasha didn't believe for a moment that Fury hadn't been getting regular updates from the shrink or that he would have allowed them to get this far if he'd thought James couldn't handle it. But it also could have been something subtler, which James had perhaps identified already.

"This is more than usual," she agreed, frowning as he poured more tzatziki on his souvlaki. They'd agreed on mutually assured destruction via garlic breath before ordering, but there was such a thing as overkill. James grinned at her and leaned across the table, pouring the rest of the little container on her plate. She glared at him for a second, then shrugged. "You know why he's doing it?"

James took a bite and chewed and swallowed before answering.

"I know why _I_ am doing it," he said instead. "So they don't think I'm a cheap trick. When I signed up for this gig, I knew what I was really doing: turning myself out for SHIELD in return for access to Steve."

"That's not true!" she cut him off, angry that he was thinking so. Angry that he was still seeing what could be _home_ as yet another temporary place of employment that might not be voluntary. "James, you know that's not true."

"Of course it is, Natalia," he said with a sad smile. _Resigned._ "You see how Fury talks -- I see Steve on their terms, when my work for them isn't taking me away, which it does even when it's just sitting in conference rooms with pencil-pushers and waiting around in case something actionable comes up."

She made a disgusted noise. "That's how we all work," she told him sourly. "Hurry up and wait, go there and sit on your hands until we come up with something for you to do, all of that. You can't tell me that this wasn't your life in the Army. I know it was. And it's not like they're asking you to do something you don't want to do already."

"They're not," James agreed easily. "But it's not going to stop once we get Belova and whoever sent her. You think they're going to just let me go back to Wyoming or wherever Steve is living and just _stay there_? Live on their dime so I can be near Steve because I used to be a Howling Commando and it's my due as a war hero? They don't work like that. They'll find something else - I've given them enough for _years_ of mission only I can pull off, or so they'll say. It will never be over."

He broke off, waiting for her to contradict him, but she didn't because, while she hadn't thought about it until now, she couldn't say that this wasn't a possibility. That Fury would take advantage of what he had on offer, which was the Winter Soldier at his beck and call. Fury had been genuine about his intentions when it came to repatriating James and getting him well, but he would never forget about the bigger picture. Natasha felt a little naive for having done so herself, distracted by her own jealousies as she had been.

"And I agreed to this," James went on, matter of fact. "I knew all along what Fury wanted from me. It was worth any price to see Steve and I don't regret paying it. But I have to push back because if I don't, the price will go up. I have to give them boundaries so that they don't keep taking more from me. Or taking me from Steve."

She understood that negotiation, should have recognized it from the start, perhaps. She'd certainly spent enough time testing SHIELD, testing Coulson, testing _Clint_ for where their boundaries were, how much could she get away with asking of them before they said no or asked for payment in return. And every time she'd found the answer to be more than she had thought, more than she would need. She'd found it all so strange to be trusted like that, respected like that. It had taken her a long time to get used to it, to not see it as something to use. To be generous about accepting it and giving it in return, to fear losing it. She had thought she would be required to teach James those lessons, to show him how to trust and be trusted again, and had been pleasantly surprised when he hadn't started immediately testing everyone around him, including her. Instead, he'd gone to the shrink, he'd gone to the analysts, he'd gone where they told him to be even if it wasn't where he'd wanted to be. But she'd read that all wrong, too. He hadn't been living for himself. He had been living up to the terms of his invisible agreement. He wasn't building himself a life; what living he did, what growth he managed, that was all a byproduct.

"Steve isn't being held hostage by SHIELD," she said carefully. "You don't have to negotiate with his kidnappers so that you'll get to see him again."

James put his fork down. "I'm not Steve, someone they can bring to the White House and celebrate not being dead. They're _never_ going to be able to admit I'm not dead because if they do, they'll have to say where I was and what I became. I can't exist. I won't exist except for what they've given me. Which is also what they can take away. So, yeah, I do have to negotiate with them because they are holding the key to everything I have ever had for myself. My old ratty undershirts, my best friend, my girl -- they can make it all go away. I'll play ball with them because I have to, but I don't have to let them get comfortable with it."

Natasha wanted to protest, but she knew that even if she could convince herself that this would never be an option for Fury -- and she wasn't sure she could -- she would never be able to convince James. So, instead, she took a different tack. "I hope you realize that should it ever come down to that, you have more allies than you think you do."

James smiled at her, grateful and knowing both. "But in the meantime, agree to Novy Izvory as the extraction point?"

"Please," she exhorted. Fury would live with all of the presumed deviations from their plan, but giving him a time and place where they would be to get out of danger would cover a lot of future sins.

Five days later, they were on their way to Sarajevo.

They were going to be two days in town before cutting northeast through Serbia; it would give them time to do some local shopping -- some things they would need could not be packed into carry-on luggage -- and it would give Fury his chance to make sure they'd gotten in undetected. The Latverians watched the Belgrade airport like hawks, but they had spies in and around other important transit points, so Fury had insisted on a 24-hour waiting period between landing and driving off to make sure there wouldn't be a welcome committee waiting for them.

Fury had offered to get local support for logistics; SHIELD had no permanent resources in Sarajevo, but he could use other agencies. James declined and Natasha backed him up on it since the fewer people who knew they were there, the better off they'd be. Getting what they needed was hardly going to be a problem for experienced pros like themselves. They laid low the first day, getting themselves on local time and waiting for any updates from the Helicarrier (Belova was still in the wind, nobody had seen them in Sarajevo), but on the second day they split up the shopping list between them; James bought their guns and Natasha stole their car and picked up food, a couple of containers of bosanski lonac and some fresh pitas from a hole-in-the-wall place that had probably been dishing up the same since Tito had been in diapers.

Natasha did the driving up toward the Latverian border; James closed his eyes because he was going to be doing the close work once they got there. They ditched the car in a field, wiping it down and removing the plates and other identifying documentation, which they buried, and then they changed into work clothes and started walking. There were formal border crossings a couple of kilometers northwest and southeast, but in between them there were no fences or guards -- of the visible type. The forest was dense and monitored electronically in stages. It was passable if you knew what was there and how it worked, as James did, but it was complicated enough to deter all but the most clever of smugglers. Even so, James needed the better part of an hour to get them past, during which all Natasha could do was play lookout.

"Welcome to Latveria," James said with a grin as he finished.

They walked on until the trees started to thin out, then they changed clothes again.

Southern Latveria was mostly agrarian, which meant work started before dawn and two strangers moving around at that hour would not go unnoticed, certainly not in a culture so used to watching everyone else (and being watched in turn) as Latveria's. So they didn't bother skulking. Instead, they were going with covers so audacious that even Natasha had blinked when James had proposed them. Fury had gone ballistic and they'd argued about it for a full two days before James had gotten his way. 

Inspector Marko Ivanic and Sergeant Irina Mironova-Tahic of the Latverian internal security service (SKL) stepped out of the trees and on to the road. James had the higher rank so that he would be the one asked any questions and Natasha had been given a name that would explain why she spoke somewhat imperfect Latverian (she was fluent, but her idiomatic vocabulary was spotty and she spoke with a Russian accent she couldn't quite erase).

Natasha had been understandably nervous -- and Fury something stronger -- about posing as members of the secret police in a state where everything was monitored and most everything computerized. But James had insisted that that was an advantage because it would let them move around more freely and deter questions. Natasha still skeptical, but it was too late to back out now. 

"If I end up back in that prison cell, I am going to hunt you down and feed you to Thor's dragon-eating koi," she warned as they walked. There was a farmhouse visible on the left, half-hidden by fields of wheat but with a light on the front porch. They would be seen imminently, if they hadn't been already. 

They didn't see anyone as they walked past, but they hadn't gotten another kilometer down the road when a police cruiser slowed down and stopped next to them. 

James did the talking. He whipped out his ID and explained in his slangy Doomstadt-accented Latverian who they were and why they were so far from home. "Someone probably saw some teenagers sneaking home after curfew and we get sent down to Selo Srpska to look for smugglers," he said with a 'what are you gonna do?' shrug. "We were supposed to get picked up at 0530, but nobody came and the fucking border guards won't lend us bicycles, so we're stuck walking back to Zembolia."

Natasha stood next to James, looking every inch like a civil servant who'd been up all night chasing phantoms and whose morning had not gotten any better since.

The constable, a young man with beefy features, poor skin, and thick hair, seemed to accept the story, asking if they'd called a taxi or asked for a police ride because he hadn't heard anything and he would have been the one retrieving them if he had. Nobody at the station had said anything about any SKL operations in Selo Srpska, however. 

"This particular wild goose chase was ordered by Chief Inspector Spirovski," James said, digging into his jacket pocket for his cell phone. "I can call the fat fucker and ask him why nobody told you guys..."

Constable Pasztor blanched. "No, no, I believe you," he assured. Whoever Spirovski was, Pasztor wanted nothing to do with interrupting his breakfast to question orders. "I can drive you to Zembolia now, but you'll have missed the morning train north. The next one coming through that stops at Pleskec won't be for at least another hour and a half, maybe more."

James waved his hand dismissively. "More time for a proper breakfast at Mamaliska's."

Which was very clearly the right answer as far as Pasztor went because he beamed and told them to hop in. 

"Thank you," Natasha said as she reached for the driver-side rear door. James subtly made a move to stop her, nothing that Pasztor would have noticed, but she saw it clearly enough. 

"Can you turn off the back-seat video camera before we get in?" he asked, sounding a little ashamed and a lot apologetic. "Everyone at Katarina Street already thinks we're sleeping together and the last thing we need is a giant photo of us from the perp feed looking like we spent the night rolling in the hay."

At least that's what Natasha assumed he said; he'd used a couple of euphemisms for sex that she hadn't heard before in that context. Either way, Pasztor gave them a knowing nod and complied and then Natasha opened the door and got in, sliding over as James got in behind her. 

Zembolia was a modest town that looked like so many other modest towns in this part of the world, too small to have been in the sights of grand-visioned conquerors or communists and thus carrying the solidity of centuries in its walls. Not too many cars, lots of bicycles and a few donkey-drawn carts, painted signs, and the surreptitious omnipresent monitoring implements of the twenty-first century police state. 

"Breakfast is on me if you want," James offered Pasztor, who mournfully declined as they pulled up in front of Mamaliska's, which fit right in with its rustic exterior and lattice windows. 

On the inside, however, it was more modern. The furniture was definitely younger than James. Probably. 

They were served a hearty breakfast by a waitress who had obviously seen them pull up in the cruiser and then the friendly exchange with Pasztor and that, Natasha presumed, identified them as police and prevented the kind of questioning that obvious strangers in a small town would normally be subjected to. She hadn't doubted that part of James's reasoning for the cover IDs. It was what would come later that worried her.

"How are we going to get to Doomstadt?" Natasha asked quietly in Latverian. There was nobody close enough to overhear, but even from a distance, English would be notable because it didn't sound at all like Latverian in its rhythms.

In the planning phase, James had been vague about how they were going to get from the forest near Selo Srpska to Doomstadt and Fury hadn't called him on it. Natasha hadn't thought too much about it because in her experience, opportunities usually presented themselves. But here they were in a restaurant across from the train station and with a local constabulary who knew that two SKL agents were in town waiting for the train -- Pasztor had no doubt hit the radio before the gas pedal to pull away from the curb. And the trains, like everything else in Latveria, had cameras in them and there was every chance that there would be real SKL agents waiting at the other end. 

James smiled at her, every inch the senior officer imparting earned wisdom to his subordinate. "Dirty little secret of the Latverian police state: the CCTV cameras on the trains and buses aren't monitored live. They're fed into facial recognition software in four-hour chunks, so our 10am train ride won't be fed into the machine until noon at the earliest. So even if we appeared on the footage, they wouldn't spot us for another few hours -- the software doesn't work fast like it does on television and it will have to plow through the end of the morning rush hour first. But we're not going to appear on the footage because I came armed." He paused to wiggle the fingers on his left hand, waiting for her to react to the bad pun. _Terrible_ pun. "And they won't think anything of it because the cameras are finicky and go out far more than they'd like to admit. Something about all of the motion."

They finished breakfast and James tipped generously, but not outrageously; everyone knew the SKL paid well and an inspector could afford to be magnanimous. Then they went across the street to the rail station. As they walked, James told her how to buy the tickets to Doomstadt, what to ask and which words to use to make it sound like she knew exactly where she was going and was familiar with the Latverian rail system. James, meanwhile, went toward the newspaper stand. She conducted the transaction as James had instructed, asking for two second-class tickets to Pleskec and a blue receipt, which wasn't actually blue. ("It's like green cards in the States, they used to be but everyone still calls them that.") She'd refamiliarized herself with Latverian coinage before they'd left, so she didn't fumble when handing over exact change, and thanked the clerk.

James was outside the station on the track-side, all the way at the end of the platform with a lit cigarette in his hand, flicking ash downwind like a pro as he read the headlines from a folded _Times of Latveria_. Because even if someone was feeling brave enough to ask the SKL officers a casual question, they'd probably not want to walk all the way out to the designated smoking area to to do it.

"Do you know what the most trafficked item is for smugglers into Latveria?" James asked as she approached. He held up the cigarette pack, which was comically tiny. "Latverian law says that they can only be sold eight to a pack, to discourage smoking. Nobody outside the country wants to mess up their production lines to stuff tiny boxes for such a small market, so the only legal ones are domestics and they're more expensive than even good booze. The black market stuff isn't cheap, either, especially if it's not the Serbian shit. You can buy a good meal for what it costs to get a pack of Gauloises or anything American."

They shifted position so that James was downwind, since the breeze had shifted and Natasha had been getting a face full of smoke.

"Did you ever smoke for real?" she asked, curious, since he managed the cigarette with the sort of casual indifference that was hard for even trained operatives to fake, although he was faking it here -- he wasn't inhaling. He didn't smoke now and hadn't when they'd known each other the first time, which she had noted and been cheered by because she hadn't and that had made her an outlier even within the Red Room because everyone in Russia smoked. Which in turn was why she'd had to take lessons in it, throwing up half a dozen times before she could even manage to inhale once, and her handlers had given up. SHIELD, on the other hand, paid for its employees to quit smoking.

"Yeah," he admitted. "Not a lot before the war because I didn't have too much spare change and they made Steve wheeze to be around, but I bummed a few during my breaks at work. Once I enlisted, though, sure. We all did and the Army gave us cigarettes to do it with, at least until the Commandos. But by then, we had other sources, not least Howard Stark, who'd import cartons of the good stuff by the box-load because he didn't want to smoke the British ones. Also, we were in France all the time and Dernier was like a truffle pig except for Gauloises, which were still unfiltered then and _Jesus_ , I still remember that rush."

He was smiling as he spoke and Natasha smiled back.

"Steve's first and only attempt to try smoking was with a Gaulois bleu," he went on, shaking his head. "Goofball couldn't have picked up a Pall Mall or something smoother. God, that was hilarious. Dugan nearly peed himself."

Natasha thought she knew what he was doing by reminiscing and she was more than willing to encourage him despite the possible risks. This was Latveria, where James had roamed confidently and cavalierly as the Winter Soldier, known and respected and _feared_ by those in power. Until the life he'd known had been ripped away from him like the worst magic trick ever, revealing him to be a tool, a victim, a perpetrator of deeds he never would have consented to if he'd had his own mind. Latveria, possibly even more than Minyar, was where his nightmares lived. If he wanted to distract himself, she was going to let him.

She'd been watching him all along during the planning process, waiting for him to say something about the giant elephant in the room, but he never had. She hadn't prompted him for the same reason she'd never prompted Clint about his time under Loki's control when they'd been chasing James while he'd still been the Winter Soldier: some scars shouldn't be prodded by anyone but the bearers. Which was more or less what she'd told Fury when he'd asked her, privately, if letting James go back to Latveria was really a smart idea and was she so sure that this wasn't some elaborate redemptive suicide mission. She still wasn't sure about the first part, but she'd answered Fury firmly on the second: James had every intention of coming back from Doomstadt; he wouldn't have let her go along if he wasn't and he would never leave Steve as he was.

The train arrived on time, of course, and James properly disposed of his cigarette before they boarded. He indicated that he should go first, which was why she could say later that even though she'd been watching him, she would never have realized that he'd used the EMP blaster in his arm to take out the car's video camera if she hadn't known that that's what he was doing. It had been such a subtle gesture, so elegantly underplayed, that even the conductor, who'd watched them board, hadn't so much as blinked.

The conductor waited until they were seated before taking their tickets and leaving a marker that indicated that they were getting off at Pleskec. They rode in silence save for a couple of meaningless discussions in politely audible Latverian about who was going to write the report (she was, of course) and whether or not to include any details that indicated just how much of a pointless assignment it had been (it was Spirovski, so it wouldn't be safe, but maybe just one, because they had had to stay up all night). The closer they got to Doomstadt, the more crowded the train got and Natasha couldn't help but feel nervous. Neither of them were unknown quantities for Latveria's real secret police -- or any of their security services, internal or foreign -- and all it would take would be one person thinking they looked familiar and taking a surreptitious picture. She knew she was keeping her tension inside, maintaining the outwardly bored expression of a commuter, but it still annoyed her that James was sitting there with his eyes closed, body loose with sleep that was probably feigned, and not even looking around periodically.

Pleskec, where the SKL headquarters were, was almost at the opposite end of Doomstadt than Wernersburg, where Castle Doom was. They got off the train and James led her on a roundabout path that started off in the direction of Katarina Street but then quickly went well wide of it. Traveling inside Doomstadt had to be on foot; the city had an extensive public transit system, but it had too many eyes, human and electronic, for James to zap into harmlessness and they could maneuver more easily around the regular street CCTV cameras, especially after the pulled season-appropriate hats out of their bags. It took them an hour to get to Wernersburg on foot using two-man countersurveillance techniques.

"We should crash for a while," James said when they were together again. "We're not going to try for the Castle until late."

Natasha nodded. "You've got somewhere, I assume?"

Hotels required passports for foreign travelers and national identity cards for citizens; their SKL cards were perfect forgeries, but there would be a problem when they were run through the database, as everyone who was registering for a hotel would be.

James nodded and she followed him to a small hotel on a side street, one clearly intended to cater to Latverians needing to stay over in Doomstadt rather than any of the international chains for visitors from abroad looking for a spot of bland familiarity in a strange place. The desk clerk, name tag announcing him as Dusan, blinked twice when he saw James, but otherwise showed no sign of recognition or surprise. He filled out the registration himself, not even asking Natasha for a name, and ran two names through the computer that came back clear, then handed over a key. "Welcome and thank you for staying with us. Please let me know if there is anything you need."

The first thing they did once entering the room was a thorough security sweep. It came up clean.

"What's his story?" Natasha asked as she sat down on the bed and started taking off her shoes, leaning over to where she'd dropped her bag to pull it closer.

"I saved his sister's life a couple of years ago," James said as he dropped down next to her and flopped on to his back. "Entirely by accident. Turns out her would-be rapist and my corrupt palace courtier were the same guy. His family has a restaurant in Novy Izvora, but instead of free meals for life, I asked for an invisible room when I needed it."

In a place like Latveria, where everything was monitored, it wasn't that unusual for arrangements to be made to find true privacy -- and not even for illicit activities.

"You needed a place to bring your paramours?" she teased lightly.

"Sometimes," he allowed with an indifferent shrug. "It was just fucking and I really wasn't shy about it unless it was someone important's wife. But toward the end, when some of the Minyar conditioning was breaking down, it was mostly just a chance to get some quiet and figure out what the hell was was going on in my head."

They took turns showering and she let him go first; when she got out, he was already asleep on the bed. Or maybe not entirely, since he turned toward her when she got in next to him, pulling her close. But all they did was sleep. 

When James's alarm went off, they got dressed -- in different clothes than they'd been wearing as SKL officers -- and took their things. They didn't bother to wipe anything down; Doom would know that they were in Latveria soon enough, one way or the other. They handed the key back to Dusan with vague words about going out to dinner and returning shortly and he asked if they would like recommendations, offering up a place nearby that served cheap but tasty fare. They concluded the pantomime by thanking him and then they left. 

James took her to a different side street that featured a storefront with a queue, which they joined. The offerings were basic, giant versions of the traditional Latverian beef dumplings, steamed on racks right next to the smiling woman who also ladled out cups of soup, which was almost like a thin goulash when Natasha took a sip. 

"Probably the best street food in the country," James explained as they walked. "Possibly the only thing I miss about here."

They'd finished their soups and were working on the dumplings that needed two hands to hold (they reminded Natasha of dabao in Hong Kong, just with different spices) when she recognized the entrance to the giant park that was attached to the grounds of Castle Doom. She remembered being here with Steve and Clint, waiting to execute a similarly improbable plan. She hoped this one went better.

"Did you like living here?" she asked as they sat on a bench in the park, joining a few other couples and families on nearby benches in enjoying a late bite on a warm autumn night. 

It was a ridiculous thing to ask on the face of it, but she knew he would understand what she had meant. 

"I don't think I can separate anything from who I was when I was here," he said after a pause for more than chewing and swallowing. "The Winter Soldier liked it here more than Russia, sure. It was pretty much the only place he had anything like a _life_ , lived anything like how a real human being lived. It's the only place he had a _name_. But everything about that life was bullshit, was worse than bullshit because it was all some constructed reality where he was the punchline. So..."

"I'm not sure if it's an improvement that you talk about the Winter Soldier in the third person or not," she said half-jokingly. 

James shrugged. "It comes and goes. It's not like I can forget I'm him. It's just sometimes I remember that I'm also Bucky who grew up in Brooklyn with Steve and I'm Sergeant Barnes, ex-POW and team sergeant of the Howling Commandos and I'm the golem who was part of Schmidt's personal army and had a HYDRA symbol on my shoulder and never even got a name. And I'm whoever I am now, who has to share headspace with all of those men and not go crazy doing it."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek and he looked at her questioningly. 

"You were crazy long before you were anything but James Buchanan Barnes," she told him. "I have this on _very_ good authority and nothing I've seen since has convinced me otherwise."

James laughed loud enough to draw attention, which required Natasha kissing him again, this time with her hands to his face to hide his features because one of the sets of eyeballs they'd drawn belonged to a policeman on patrol. He gave them a benign look as he passed, not even a glimmer of curiosity or concern, as James nuzzled her hair until he was well past. 

"While my shrink probably approves of your methods," he murmured in her ear like love words, "Fury would shit housebricks if that's how we blew our cover."

When they got up from the bench a few minutes later, hand in hand and stopping first to throw away their litter, nobody noticed or cared. James led her up a different route than how she'd gone with Steve and Clint a year ago, along a semi-hidden path that went parallel to the front of the castle and past the barracks and guard stations they'd had to maneuver through. He stopped in a seemingly random spot, checked for witnesses by pulling her into a kiss and looking past her, then led her into the trees to what she first thought was an air ventilation shaft, then realized was an entrance to the underground tunnel network. The heavy iron door, looking like a raised manhole cover, was locked, a sturdy thing that would take far too long to pick. So James activated the armor for his arm, braced his feet, grabbed, and pulled. It took him two tries before the metal started to buckle, but then it came away so suddenly that James was thrown backward by the momentum, checking himself hard against a tree to stop his fall.

"Heh," he breathed out, winded and victorious. He waved the warped metal like a trophy. 

He went down the revealed ladder first, waiting for her at the bottom because there was nowhere to go until they dealt with the next locked door, which unlike the one at the top was modern and alarmed and had a digital lock with a keypad. She wondered if this had been how Steve had gotten out last year; he might have been able to push past the iron door with enough force.

"Will frying it work or send everyone running?" Natasha asked. She had a password reader that would work, but it would take forever, especially if the code was longer than five digits.

"Tony gave me a setting that should just make it hiccup, not fry," James said, although he very clearly doubted whether it would work. "He called it the lockpick setting."

He held his hand over the lock and the moment the lights went out, he pulled the door open and Natasha ran through it, him at her heels, yanking it closed behind him. They stood for a moment looking at each other and grinning like idiots before they returned to the task at hand. 

There was a short, dark, concrete tunnel and then another door with a swipe-card lock. James pulled a card out of his pocket and held it up in the dim light to see which end was up. 

"That won't send up any flares?" she asked. 

"It's a supervisory maintenance pass," he explained, swiping the card through the lock as the light changed from red to green. "Some of these sections were built to fend off the Turks, let alone the Nazis; they're in constant need of repair and all work has to be verified, although that rarely happens at the same time. Nobody would think twice about a night supervisor wandering around checking off all of the work that had been done during the day."

The corridor looked blandly familiar, anonymous enough that she couldn't tell if they were passing any part she had been near last year, if that door led to the supply closet she and Clint had hidden in or if that corridor led to the elevator bank where they'd been discovered. James knew where he was going, though, and led them purposely toward a door marked "exit" in Latverian with chartreuse signage, beyond which were stairs. 

They went up three levels and then James swiped them through another door, into a hallway Natasha initially thought might be the royal apartments, then realized was instead just a very sumptuous hallway in a public part of the palace. There were expensive rugs on the dark hardwood floors and proper artwork on the richly painted walls and the bookcases that dotted the landscape all had leatherbound volumes with gold-embossed writing on the spines. There were regularly-spaced doorways on both sides, heavy wooden doors that were all open, even though there was no light coming from any room and thus, it would seem, nobody was around. 

Except there was. The hallway had a turn to the left at the far end and there were voices coming from around that corner, casual voices talking at a volume that indicated that they were not worried about being overheard. James gestured for her to go into the nearest office, which had just enough ambient lighting from the hallway and the moonlit windows for them to make out furniture and see each other. With hand gestures, he directed her to go under the desk, which was a large, heavy, wooden thing with a panel that hid the user's feet. She went around it as James dropped to the ground and rolled himself under the heavy Victorian-style sofa, then crawled into the footwell, drawing her pistol and waiting. 

She could hear the guards talking to each other about World Cup qualifying matches and the local basketball teams, using words she didn't know and couldn't even guess in context, as they drew closer. They were going into each room, she realized, and turning on the lights. She took the safety off her pistol, slowly as to not draw attention to the noise. She closed her eyes, waiting for the guards to reach their room. The lights flicked on and she opened her eyes, blinking to adjust, and held her breath as the footsteps drew closer and closer until they were just inches away, on the other side of the panel protecting the footwell. 

And then they receded, heading back toward the doorway and the light turned off again. She exhaled silently, but otherwise didn't move until she heard the voices grow fainter again and then the beep-beep of the card-lock being disengaged and the door opening. Even then, after she heard the door close again, she waited. After another few minutes, she heard James shifting, so she put the pistol back on safety and crawled out from her hiding spot. 

"The guards are supposed to check under the furniture," he explained as they dusted themselves off and continued on their way. "But they don't. They only turn on the lights because their supervisors sometimes watch from outside. The palace security system is good, they know it's good, and they know they have numbers."

"And yet here we are," she pointed out.

"Who do you think tested their security?" James asked with a grin. 

It was then that she noticed that his left hand was still metallic; he had left the armor on. 

"There's no point in hiding who I am now," he said with a shrug he probably hoped was casual. "And if we do get caught, well, they'll be more scared of the Winter Soldier than I am."

He led her back into the hallway before she could comment, down the way the guards had come from, pausing at the left turn before assuring that there were no surprises around the corner. There were a few more offices with another identical hallway between them, but at the end was another door with another card lock and James drew his pistol, gesturing for Natasha to draw her own before swiping them through. 

There was nobody on the other side, which turned out to be an elevator bank. There were two elevators on the left, with a staircase on the far end, and then a single elevator on the right, with another staircase next to it. The ones on the left were for the office people, Natasha realized, and the one on the right was the royal elevator for Doom.

James gestured for silence, then indicated that they would be taking the royal stairs. The reason became apparent at the top of the fourth long set of stairs, which did not continue any further or lead to another locked door, but instead to an arched vestibule. James pulled out his silencer and started screwing it on to the muzzle of his pistol as they passed through the vestibule, which opened out to a gorgeous paneled foyer done up in Turkish-influenced reds and golds. Diagonally across from where they stood in shadows was a desk and a guard, who was reading. 

James sighed quietly and unscrewed the silencer and holstered the pistol, instead pulling out a tranquilizer dart and a fat straw. Whoever the guard was, James recognized him and didn't want to kill him. Instead, he shot him in the neck with the dart. The guard crumpled slowly before he could even reach for where the dark had hit his carotid, slumping over so that he looked like he was a schoolboy asleep over his studies. 

Natasha was shocked that the doors to the royal apartments were unlocked, especially at almost midnight, but they were. James knew the layout and led her quickly and quietly through; the family was in residence and the household staff might still be around. It was quiet, though; Victor and Valeria's children were young and probably asleep and Natasha was willing to guess that the staff had retired for the evening until she heard noises from the kitchen as they approached it. They could see a woman in an apron preparing a tea tray as they passed, down the long hallway that eventually led to the master bedroom and Victor von Doom's study. 

This was where Steve had seen his best friend for the first time in more than seventy-five years and it had come at the business end of a bullet and Natasha wondered if James was thinking about that now or if he could put it out of his mind. She knew he would remember it. 

The furrows in the wall the bullets had dug out were repaired, she noted in passing. As if they'd never been. Probably not the first bullet holes spackled over in Castle Doom. 

The door to the study was closed, but there was a light coming through from underneath. James knocked twice, the hard-soft knock of someone who knew they were expected. 

"Enter!" Doom called out quietly. 

When James opened the door, Doom was at his desk with his reading glasses on. His attention remained at work, not needing to peer up at his maid bringing his tea. He looked content but serious, a successful man surrounded by his family and all that he had worked for, and not very much at all like the man who'd had her on her knees last year with one of his flunkies holding a gun to her head while he asked his questions. 

"You can put the tea on the small table, Alena," he said, eyes still on his work as he crossed out a line of text. "Thank you and you may retire for the night."

When he didn't hear either confirmation or the sound of the tea service being put down, he looked up. His surprise was brief, but very genuine. He seemed especially surprised to see Natasha, which was good because it meant that nobody knew that James was working for SHIELD.

"I suppose this is overdue," Doom said calmly, taking off his reading glasses, folding them, and placing them on the desk. "If you are here to kill me, which you must be, then I ask that you do it away from here. I do not want my children to see me thus. This will be Ondrej's office soon enough and I want him to be able to oversee Latveria's care without being haunted by the memories of his father's corpse."

"You don't deserve that much consideration," James replied coldly in Latverian. "But Ondrej does."

Doom nodded in acknowledgment and started to stand.

"Stay where you are," James told him. "My gift to Ondrej will depend on how you answer my questions."

Doom sat. James gestured for Natasha to take one of the chairs across from the desk and he sat in the other. 

"What do you want to know?" Doom asked. "You have already decided that I share blame for what has been done to you."

"Do you accept it?"

Doom shrugged carelessly. "I didn't know who you really were until a few years ago. But yes, I knew the gist of what had been taken from you, if not the specifics, from the start. I knew your visit to Minyar with Schmidt had not been your first. And I would not have cared had you continued to serve Latveria's interests so very well."

Natasha had known that Lukin had known who James really was and she had assumed that he hadn't cared, but the casual confirmation bothered her. He should have been at least a little bothered at using a brainwashed man, a _captive_ , to do his dirtiest deeds, but he hadn't. 

Alena and the tea arrived and she was startled by the extra people, frozen by the door. Natasha prepared to jump up and deal with her should she try to summon help, but Doom smiled and apologized for the surprise and asked that she bring two additional cups.

"What do you know of the other _specialists_ Lukin has brought here to work?" James asked when she was gone.

"As little as possible," he replied. "I know the most about you because you were his greatest possession."

"And that divided loyalty doesn't bother you?" Natasha asked, choosing to show incredulity instead of anger at his continued reference to James as something less than human. 

"I don't have anything to fear from Aleksander Lukin," Doom answered, pausing while Alena returned with the cups and left, closing the door behind her. She wasn't oblivious to what was going on; she'd understood that there would be no tea-drinking tonight else she would have poured it. "And it's not because I think I am smarter than he is or too dangerous to take on. It's quite the opposite. I am too small. _Latveria_ is too small."

Natasha looked over at James, but he neither looked back at her nor gave anything away. The consummate professional.

"Alek is not here by choice," Doom continued. "I have always known that just as he has always done me the courtesy of pretending otherwise. But we can be useful to each other and that has been sufficient. He is not unhappy here."

James looked over at the window and the bookcase where he and Steve had fought before they'd both jumped out the window as Natasha and Clint had watched helplessly and fought off the Latverian troops on their tail. The damage was gone, fresh paint and new shelves and window sash pretending all was right in Castle Doom.

"You would have had me kill Captain America in this very room," James said, looking back at Doom. "Did you ask someone else to finish the job?"

At this Doom did startle a little. "No," he replied firmly and with disgust. "Defending Latveria's sovereignty from SHIELD on her own soil is one thing. Assassinating another nation's icon on his holy ground is quite another. It is _uncouth_. And were I to make such an attempt, it would be as a last resort because I would not expect Latveria to survive the experience... Ah. Is that why you are here? Not to kill me for your private revenge, but, back in the warm embrace of your native land, you arrive with the sanction of Nicholas Fury to exact vengeance on behalf of a grieving nation? That is why Miss Romanova has joined you."

And thus they had confirmation of what Sonia had told them. 

"That's how it was supposed to go down," she said in English, not bothering to speak Latverian because the two men would understand her. Doom turned his attention to her. She looked over at James, who gave her a tiny nod, before continuing. "The murderer is identified as a Latverian foreign agent, we come here, and a day later, Latveria's planning a state funeral and a coronation."

Doom shook his head. "But--"

"But I don't think you have any idea what kind of nest of vipers you've invited into your home," she cut him off with a smile. "It's a good thing you don't think you're smarter than Lukin because you're not. He's been playing you from the start for far more than sanctuary."

"What do you mean?" Doom asked angrily, but Natasha could see that he wasn't angry at her, or at least not entirely angry at her. He was angry at himself. Doom was a shrewd politician and a very bright man. He must have understood that by allowing Lukin sanctuary in Latveria and then inviting him into the life of the royal family, Doom was grabbing a tiger by the tail. But he had thought that he would be able to recognize the warning signs, to sense the inevitable betrayal. He hated Natasha for telling him that he hadn't.

"The assassin was Yelena Belova," James told him, still in Latverian. "Who is an agent of the Latverian foreign security service. But if she wasn't acting on your orders -- and the assassination of a target as high-level as Captain America would _have_ to come on your orders -- then she was acting on Lukin's. And if she was acting on Lukin's, then it was done with the full knowledge that _you_ would be the one to pay."

Doom shook his head angrily and uttered denials. "Alek doesn't have the power to suborn an arm of the government."

Natasha laughed, ugly to her own ears. "Aleksander Lukin is the Supreme HYDRA. He has a lot of things you don't think he does."

James provided details. Doom got paler the longer he went on until finally he bid James stop. 

"Call Ianescu," James suggested. Ianescu was the head of the Latverian foreign security service. "Ask him where Belova is. She's not in Mombasa; she hasn't been since she started hunting for me."

Doom picked up the phone and dialed. He apologized to Ianescu for the late call, but did he know where Sub-Commander Belova was? Mombasa? Was he sure? Checked in yesterday, had she? No, no need to recall her. It will be easy enough to task someone else.

Doom replaced the phone on its cradle and took a deep breath. 

"Alek is not in Latveria right now," he said. "He is in Geneva. I will not use his children or Elizaveta against him. When he returns, he shall be dealt with."

"You'll try and you'll fail," Natasha told him. "You were correct. You are too small." 

It was a statement calculated to make him act; they wanted Lukin scrambling and if took bringing down the royal house of Latveria in the process, well, so be it. The Happiest Nation in the World was rotten to the core. 

James got up and Natasha followed. 

"My gift to Ondrej is more time with his father, not his father's natural life," he warned in Latverian. Then he switched to English. "You're alive because I am letting you live. I have bigger fish to fry. Don't get comfortable." 

They left the way they had come in. Once outside the park next to the castle, James hailed one of the special late-night cabs and asked the driver to take them to the main post office in Novy Izvory. Cabs had cameras, too, and it would be a long drive, a half-hour even in no traffic, but it would be the fastest way out of Doomstadt. Natasha didn't think Doom would be sending anyone after them, but there were still standing warrants out on both of them and those wouldn't get rescinded in the middle of the night. 

They walked for about ten minutes once the cab dropped them off, basic counter-surveillance, and then went to the street where the car SHIELD had left them was parked in a public garage. Natasha took the keys from James, who was looking beat for more reasons than the long day. Being the Winter Soldier again had taken a lot out of him. She followed the signs for the Romanian border; there was nobody on the line and when the guards asked them what they had been doing in Latveria, James told them he used to live in Doomstadt and had been showing his girlfriend his old haunts. 

Natasha pulled over at the first opportunity once they were an exit past the border and called Fury.

"We're out," she told him. "Message delivered. Nobody killed. Suspicions confirmed."

"Good," Fury told them, not hiding his relief. "No changes in plans. Proceed to getting the hell out of Dodge."

They were supposed to catch a flight from Giarmata airport in Timisoara, but the flight didn't leave until a little before noon -- they had factored in a lot more time to do what they needed to do in Doomdstadt and get out of Latveria -- so they had hours to wait. 

"Let's get a room," she suggested. 

James nodded tiredly. "Sounds like a plan." He looked at his watch. "I should call Peggy."

He should, she privately agreed, for more reasons than just that he hadn't spoken to Peggy or to Steve since before they'd left New York. It would be close to five days since there'd been any contact and more than two weeks since they'd left Wyoming. Steve had been up and down since then. The nightmares were continuing, but Thor and the nurses had gotten him to sit in a chair with arms (he hadn't liked it much). The fuzzy ball the agents had gotten him was his new favorite thing ever -- it had a rattle inside, which he loved but drove Peggy nuts -- but it didn't quite make up for the fact that James wasn't there because Steve was watching the doorway hopefully every time he heard footsteps. That he was showing disappointment was good, very good, but it hadn't made James feel any better. 

"You're going to be lucky it will just have to be a phone call," Natasha teased, changing lanes. James had done video chats from Brooklyn, which hadn't gotten Steve to stop waiting for him to walk into his room, but had it allowed Steve to see him when he talked and had given James the opportunity to see some of the small improvements Steve had been making. "You have looked better, Hot Stuff."

James blew her a kiss. 

They found a not-too-sketchy-looking hotel near the airport. Natasha got them registered while James carried their backpacks. They'd have to sort through the contents before they went to the airport and lose anything that could get them arrested for trying to board with it. 

Once they were in the room, Natasha took James's left hand in hers. It was the dull silver of vibranium because he still had the armor on top. "You can power down," she said gently. "We're clear."

James gave her an embarrassed smile and the metal disappeared, revealing cooler-than-human synthetic skin underneath. She kept the hand in her grip and used to pull him into a hug, which he returned, resting his cheek against the top of her head and breathing deeply. "Thank you," he said quietly. She squeezed a little harder. 

Eventually they separated and James reached down to pick up the backpacks where he'd dropped them on the floor, tossing them on the bed. Which squeaked with just the light pressure on the springs. 

They looked at each other and burst out laughing because that was totally a gauntlet thrown down in challenge. 

But first, essentials. James called Peggy as Natasha dug out shampoo and soap. Everything was fine, but could she call back in half an hour? They were in the middle of something. 

Natasha showered first and was digging through her pack's front pocket for her chapstick when James's phone rang, despite it only being twenty minutes. 

"Do you want me to get it?" Natasha asked. James had already finished showering and had been brushing his teeth. She heard him spit before he answered no. 

He came running out, towel slipping from around his hips as he grabbed it with one hand and his phone with the other. Such a graceful man in a fight and yet he nearly dropped both, which would have been a nice view, but would have put the call to voicemail. 

She laughed at him and he smirked at her in return, although the smirk faded immediately when he answered the phone. 

"Hey.... _Steve_?"


	13. Chapter 13

The flight back to New York felt twice as long as it actually was. Instead of sleeping, James spent most of it reading the updated medical files Fury had sent them. ("You couldn't have mentioned it before we left Sarajevo?" "I didn't want you distracted." "And when we checked in from Romania?" "Peggy didn't want me spoiling the surprise.") Natasha had been able to sleep for a few hours, but James's restlessness next to her was a distraction and was seriously starting to mess with her zen by the time they were over the Atlantic. She would have suffered in silence had he been giddy, but after an initial post-call high that had lasted him through the trip to the airport, he had crashed hard. And while he had testily refused to talk when she'd given up and prompted him to do so, she had a pretty good idea of what the problem was. This would be the first time since Doomstadt that Steve would see James and not only recognize his childhood friend, but also know what had become of him since. James was flying home in anticipation of rejection now that Steve had his memories back and there was nothing Natasha could do to ease that anxiety.

Steve did not have all of his memories back, although the gaps were shrinking and his problem now was with short-term memories and retaining what he'd been told since he'd woken up three days ago with Peggy's name on his lips. But he knew who Peggy was, knew who Tony was, knew _when_ he was, even if he'd forgotten the where a few times. Natasha hadn't bothered to hold back the laugh at Steve's ever-fresh surprise and horror at finding himself so far from home. 

In the most basic of layman's terms, Steve had been upgraded from infant to severe stroke patient. The improvement hadn't happened all at once, instead a series of small changes during the two weeks since they'd left Wyoming, some that James had noticed during their video chats and some that would not have presented themselves in that context and a few that had only been identified in hindsight because everyone had been hyper-aware of seeing what they wanted to see instead of what was and had been careful (too careful, it turned out) to not ascribe intent to Steve's actions where there had been none. The neurologists had been expecting a leap forward as Steve's brain continued to repair itself, but they, too, had been stunned by the rapidity. 

In the files Natasha had read, which had been a summary description meant for Steve's friends and not the full treatment that James had gotten, the overriding theme was the management of expectations. Steve was himself in the sense that he knew who he was, but they were to be cognizant of the fact that he was still not the man he'd been before he'd been shot. 

The man Steve was now was still one of greatly diminished capacity. Natasha had spoken to him for all of a minute on the phone and his limitations had been obvious even then. His speech was slow, slurred, and affected by an aphasia that apparently got worse as he tired; he rarely used full sentences because of that. His control over his body had not significantly improved, so his fine motor skills were poor, his balance worse, and the serum was apparently complicating things. He still needed assistance for all of the most basic personal caretaking, which in addition to everything else frustrated him profoundly, amplifying the mood swings. He'd be giddy at an accomplishment, push himself until he was unable to do something or say something, get angry and lash out, show remorse and start crying, get ashamed and withdraw, and then even out, usually after a nap. James had told Natasha that Peggy had confessed that being around Steve now was frequently exhausting. 

By the time Natasha got to the house in Wyoming with James -- after a six-hour layover in New York, enough time to go home, shower, eat, dump her dirty laundry on her bed and grab clean clothes, and get back to the airport -- she was ready to compare notes because James had turned into a tightly-wound ball of tension that even strangers were steering clear of. 

"We're lucky he didn't get pulled aside by TSA," she told Peggy, who was in the living room with Thor when they arrived. Steve was napping upstairs, but James went to see him anyway, promising not to wake him up and Peggy assuring him it would probably be better if he did. "I have a headache from sitting next to him and we barely spoke."

James didn't wake Steve up, but he didn't come back down, either, choosing to sit next to the bed and just watch and wait and enjoy the last few minutes of the fullness of Steve's affection and love before he woke up, recognized the Winter Soldier, and turned away. James had more or less confirmed Natasha's suspicions during the drive up from Denver, by which point she had been less than gracious about how utterly ridiculous he was being and they'd made the rest of the trip in heavy silence. 

Nonetheless, Natasha was grateful for having been present when Steve did wake up, not only for the unbelievable joy of having him look at her with recognition and then smile, but also for how that smile broadened when his gaze turned to James. Her eyes were teary, but she could still bear witness to how grateful and happy Steve was to see James at his side. He reached out with one wild hand and James caught it in his own and clasped hard, bringing both to his own cheek. She left the two of them alone then to cry and laugh and be together.

She was still wiping her eyes when she ran into Thor, walked into him to be precise. He kept her from falling over with a firm grip on her upper arms, but then she had to explain why she was running off with tears in her eyes lest he think James had upset her. Good tears, she said, explaining what she'd seen. 

"To see him know himself is a truly wondrous thing," Thor agreed. "To see him know me, too, filled my heart with joy. I hope it brings Bucky the peace he deserves."

Natasha sighed. "I hope he doesn't ruin it," she replied. "He will turn Steve's faith in him into a sign of weakness instead of what it is."

Thor didn't quite manage to keep the pain out of his eyes before he pushed it aside and Natasha closed hers, since it was too late to look away. "I'm sorry."

Of all of the things to forget in the moment... Thor had been so supportive of Steve with everything to do with the hunt for James after he'd disappeared from Doomstadt. The parallels had been unavoidable between Loki and James, except that one had chosen his path and the other had had it thrust upon him. But in the wake of Doomstadt, it had been Thor to sit with Steve and talk of brotherhood beyond blood and beyond death. And here, now, where James had returned from the chasm recognizable in his goodness when Loki had shown up full of hate and intent on conquering Earth to spite his brother... She couldn't feel bad for anything that happened to Loki and she had no frame of reference for losing a brother, however one defined the term, but she did feel for Thor and she should have spoken less cavalierly.

"Do not apologize," Thor assured with a gentle squeeze of her arms. She looked up to see a smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "The love between brothers is a complicated weave, knotted in many places and frayed in others, at once incomprehensible and most simple. I may no longer be able to share in it in the way that I would wish, but the memories of it remain strong and I have learned to take comfort in that when I can no longer reach for it in the present. 

"Bucky does not bear the guilt that he believes himself to carry, whereas my brother bore far more guilt than he would ever accept. I, too, hope that the passage of time and the present circumstance will allow him to accept the hand offered that he rejected once before."

Natasha could only hope. And maybe a little more because the next three hours were spent in the secure comms room doing the debrief with Fury about what happened in Latveria. The first hour was her alone and Fury didn't hesitate to ask about how James had conducted himself and how he'd handled being back in Latveria. 

"Like a pro," she answered honestly. "From a tradecraft perspective, it was beautiful to watch. I think I have a much better understanding of how he stayed a myth all of these years. He's much better than I remember him being and I remember him being brilliant."

Fury didn't even hint at her being biased because she and James were lovers; he respected her professional assessment and, more importantly, her professionalism. 

"From every other perspective?" he prompted.

Natasha chose her next words carefully, since she'd just essentially told Fury that James would be the best SHIELD agent ever. 

"He thinks he's whoring himself out to you in exchange for access to Steve," she said. Being circumspect with what she said didn't necessarily mean she had to use nice words. "He thinks he has to keep dancing for you so you don't take everything he has away from him."

Fury visibly reacted to that, leaning back as if struck and scowling. 

"I didn't try to convince him otherwise," she went on. "First, he'd never believe me. Second, I'm not sure it isn't true."

Fury shook his head slowly. "He is an asset I would like to keep on the board," he allowed, which Natasha didn't think was much of an admission, but gave Fury points for not lying about it. "But he was born with the right to live here freely and this country will never be able to repay what he did for it and what was done to him because of that."

Natasha understood that Fury was trying to convince her of his intentions, since she would have more influence in James accepting them or not. 

"He'll do what you ask him to," she warned. "He is carrying a guilt that I don't know that time will ever erase. But I won't let you take advantage of that. And I'm not alone."

She hadn't taken a poll of the other Avengers, but she couldn't imagine any of them not helping protect James from SHIELD and not even out of respect for Steve. Hell, Tony would do it for fun. 

"Understood," Fury agreed. Once upon a time, Fury would have reacted far differently to her -- or anyone else -- openly challenging him like this. _Threatening_ him like this. But the last few years of the Avengers Initiative had changed the dynamic considerably. They worked better under his direction than they would apart, but he needed them to protect the world in a fashion he saw fit. They were not partners, but the balance of power had shifted considerably. 

"Now start at the beginning with the border crossing."

James came in during the second hour, looking drained and bloodshot and far more relaxed than he'd been since they'd been on the flight from Romania. He slid into a chair next to her and let Fury pump him for details about their adventure that Natasha hadn't been able to explain to his satisfaction. Despite all of the tension that had been between them on this long day -- days, by this point, since they'd left Romania yesterday -- they fell into an easy rhythm of explaining and theorizing and when they reached the end, the point at which all of the details were supposed to be churned into useful suggestions for future actions, they were of one mind. 

"The next step is going to be Doom's," Natasha said. "His pride has been wounded too deeply to let someone else -- us -- handle this. He doesn't care who else has prior claim to Lukin's hide. He wants it. But he's not big enough to get it." 

"He'll go after Kronas," James added. "It's the biggest, easiest target, but it's also the most valuable. And depending on how far Lukin is in his plans to become Supreme HYDRA, it may be the most vulnerable."

Fury nodded as he took notes. "I'll see what FININT has to say; they've been keeping tabs on Kronas since last year and we've been monitoring HYDRA-related accounts for much longer."

There was more, but at the end, Fury closed his notebook and looked at the both of them. "You two did fine work. Congratulations. But don't get too comfy on your laurels. Widow, you'll have a few days, but I'm going to need you back in New York by next week because there have been missions getting back-burnered that need to get taken care of. 

"Mister Barnes, you are staying put. Until we have actual eyeballs on Belova or until Doom forces Lukin into something we can act on, there's nothing I need from you and everything Steve Rogers does. You will continue meeting with the research working groups via VTC as requested and with Doctor Soo as required. And you can tell Rogers that Doctor Soo is looking forward to renewing their acquaintance. He starts sessions next week. Any questions?"

Natasha understood what this was and why Fury had made sure she was around to witness it. She wasn't sure how much James would recognize of Fury's attempt to prove good faith; it depended on how screwed up being around Steve was making him. 

When they left the comms room, Natasha gave James a long look, which he bore patiently and then shrugged. She shrugged back because, really, it was too soon to tell much of anything and if he was doing all right at the moment, then that would do. 

It was roast chicken night, which made the house smell wonderful. There would be three of them, done with different seasonings, because chickens didn't come large enough to feed the entire detail. (At least on Earth; Thor assured them Vanaheim had such creatures and he would try to bring one if he could, which had prompted a debate on whether it would fit in the oven even if it were spatchcocked or whether they'd have to set up a fire pit in the backyard. Natasha suspected they'd do the firepit just because they liked the idea.) The third chicken was as yet uncooked; it would go in to the oven closer to when the current shift on duty took their dinner break. 

Peggy and Steve were in the kitchen watching food be prepared. Steve was sitting in a wheelchair, pillows at his sides keeping him propped upright, next to Peggy at the table. She was trimming green beans by snapping off the tips; Steve had a lemon in his hands, turning it over and over as he once had the fuzzy blocks. But his attention wasn't on it, he was watching the agents at the kitchen island do food prep. 

"Miss it?" Natasha asked, sitting down in the chair next to him. She hadn't had a chance to spend any time with him yet, to express any kind of joy or gratitude or relief at his progress, and it felt a little ridiculous for her first words to him that he could understand be something so small and banal. So much had happened, so many changes, so much _everything_ and she was making small talk. 

The look Steve gave her took her breath away because it was so _him_ , fully and completely. She felt her eyes prick with tears, but she didn't look away because she might be a coward with her words, but she could give Steve this. 

"Yeah," he agreed. He took one hand off of the lemon he was massaging and extended it toward her clumsily and she took it, interlacing her fingers with his and squeezing hard. He squeezed back more gently and held on, turning his attention back to the agents and their kitchen theater so she could wipe the tears from her eyes with her free hand without losing too much more of her dignity. 

She'd long ago given up hope of preserving any kind of dignity around Peggy, who had watched them and now gave Natasha a gentle smile before returning to organizing her piles of beans and discarded tips. 

"You putting the moves on my girl when my back is turned?" James asked as he came around to the table on the other side of Natasha, placing a tall glass of water in front of her. She smiled up at him gratefully. 

She knew James had told Steve about them from the start, but he must have said something again upstairs earlier -- or Peggy or Thor or someone else must have said something -- because Steve wasn't surprised. She wondered what he did think about it, remembering what Peggy had said had been Steve's thoughts once upon a time. She wondered if this was something he'd have to be reminded of tomorrow because his short-term memory wasn't good. 

Steve turned back to look at James, then at Natasha and she saw the twinkle in his eyes before he looked down at their hands, where he was rubbing her knuckle gently with his thumb. "Maybe."

"Maybe," James repeated sourly, then taking a long drink from his water glass before his smile gave him away. "Some gallant you are. I didn't miss that, you know. You showing up and every other guy in the room turning invisible."

"You were hardly a wallflower, Sergeant Barnes," Peggy retorted tartly. "A shrieking violet rather than a shrinking one." 

James shrugged. "Someone had to console all those broken hearts after the Star Spangled Man with a Plan turned 'em down. Bad for morale." 

Steve was back upstairs by the time the dining room table was being prepared for dinner; he didn't like needing to be fed and he refused to let it happen in front of so many observers. James volunteered for the task, which had been Thor's for the past few days, allowing Thor to join in the group meal for what was apparently his last night in the house.

"I am needed back in Asgard," he explained. "There is growing unrest in Nidavellir and a show of force will be required sooner than later lest the need turn from demonstration to earnest combat."

Natasha didn't ask if his promise to stay with Steve while they had been gone had conflicted with his care of his own realm; it clearly had. But Thor had just as obviously prioritized Steve and to question that would be disrespectful. So, instead, she asked how he was communicating with Asgard, since there had been no Bifrost openings near the house. 

"A messenger was sent to Jane," Thor explained. "I had left instructions to preserve the secrecy of this place. I will depart from Midgard from her home."

Thor had made friends with all of the agents at the house -- of course he had -- and so his farewells were an ongoing process. He spent most of the evening with Steve, though, sitting with him and James and Natasha and, through the magic of the internet and a Starkvision tablet, Tony and Pepper. Steve was mostly quiet, sitting in what had been Peggy's chair (he wasn't allowed to get back into bed until it was time to sleep, which annoyed him a little, Natasha noticed) with the plush ball in his hands, but he was clearly following along and enjoying himself even if he couldn't get his thoughts out quickly enough to participate in the banter and bickering. It was an effort for him to get words out at all, especially now at the end of the day, and sometimes it wasn't the right word that finally did come out, but Steve was _present_ and that made all the difference in the world. 

Especially after James's and Tony's musings about further weaponizing James's arm sounded like they might be edging a little too much toward planning. 

"No," Steve said firmly, interrupting Tony's working-out-the-details-out-loud monologue about laser cutters. 

"No what?" James challenged him. "Why can't I have laser beams coming out of my fingertips if I want them?"

Pepper's groan was a familiar one to Natasha, part 'boys and their toys' and mostly the sort of beleaguered resignation that came with knowing that however ridiculous the question was -- and the question was utterly ridiculous -- Tony was already taking it seriously. 

"Tony, _no_ ," Steve repeated. 

"Ah, the return of Captain Killjoy," Tony sighed dramatically. "Fine, no laser beams."

Steve fell asleep in the chair; Thor and James woke him up after Pepper and Tony had terminated the call to get him ready for bed. Natasha said her goodnight -- and goodbye to Thor -- then, since it would mean one fewer witness to his infirmities and Steve was enough himself that her being a woman mattered now and she could not imitate Joanne and Felicity's professionally impersonal approach to intimate care. 

She was already in bed asleep -- the long travel and the emotional freight of the past week had taken their toll -- when James entered their room. She woke up at the noise, but quickly fell back asleep. 

She woke up again late the following morning, unsurprised to find the other side of the bed empty and cool. But James hadn't gone far and she found him where she first looked, in Steve's room. She heard Peggy and James laughing, weirdly echoing until she realized that they were in the en suite bathroom. There were plans to more fully retrofit the bathroom to accommodate Steve's disabilities, but for the time being, there were handrails and a shower chair, which a still-pajamaed Steve was sitting in, face partially covered in lather and a towel over his chest, as Peggy sat on the covered toilet and James, wielding a shaving brush, was trying to maneuver between them. 

"... the drugstore. I had to go to the hipster store to get a real razor, which makes no freaking sense because none of them shave," James was saying as Natasha knocked on the door jamb to announce her presence. 

Steve reached up to paw at James's face. "You either."

"I've been traveling for a week, ya bum," James replied, deftly ducking away from Steve's hand. "But that doesn't mean I want to use a flimsy piece of plastic to get rid of it."

Natasha grinned at Peggy, who rolled her eyes; they had both heard variations on this theme before from both men. Neither Steve before the shooting nor James now had any love or respect for disposable razors, even less for electrics, and their indignation was to be laughed at, not with, because they sounded like grumpy old men every time it came up. Steve had a beautiful old-fashioned double-bladed razor in Brooklyn, part of a gift set from Pepper, but here and now, James was using his own kit. 

Steve noticed Natasha and lifted his head to see her better over James's shoulder, making James lather his nose at the sudden movement. "Really?" James sighed, reaching for the washcloth in the sink, squeezing it out before using it. "You had better sit still when I'm holding the razor."

Steve maybe looked a little pleased with himself, which made Natasha laugh. 

James stood up once Steve's face was fully lathered, stretching his back and surprising Natasha with a quick kiss before putting down the brush and running the razor through the sink full of hot water. 

"Now you remember Father Patrick's rules about talking and shaving," James warned before he leaned forward, tilting Steve's chin up. "Anything you gotta say, say it now or hold your peace."

James gave Steve a moment in case he did want to speak, but he didn't, so he took firm grip of Steve's chin, turning his head to the side, and began to work. As he did, pausing regularly to rinse the razor in the sink, he told Peggy and Natasha of how Father Patrick's shaving lessons had been a rite of passage into manhood for all of the boys in the orphanage -- "Sister Mary Francis coulda shown us, too, she had more facial hair than we did" -- and how Steve had gotten his lessons a year later than James. "And it was only because Steve was feeling low, not because he had anything that could pass for whiskers."

Steve kept his face still for the duration, but Natasha could in his eyes how happy he was. She hoped James could see it, too. 

After Steve was cleanshaven -- "smooth like a baby's bottom" -- James left the rest of Steve's care to Felicity, getting a protesting noise out of Steve for warning her that Steve was "feeling frisky this morning" before escorting Peggy downstairs. 

It was a good start to their time in Wyoming, which Natasha was too much the fatalist to think would last, but she could not have anticipated how quickly it would go downhill.

In hindsight, she could admit that she hadn't seen the warning signs. She wasn't spending a lot of time with James during the day -- she was catching up with her own work while he did his video sessions and had started taking part in Steve's physical therapy in addition to his own training. He was quiet in the evenings, but she'd put it down to exhaustion. 

The third evening, however, James took off on a run after spending time alone with Steve and when he didn't return for three hours, Natasha was ready to send out a search party. 

"What were you two talking about that set him off?" Natasha asked Steve, already guessing the answer. 

"He's confessing," Steve said, working hard to get the words out because it was late and he was tired, but he wouldn't even go upstairs until James returned. "Didn't care. Still love him."

Natasha sighed. "I still love him, too. But I'm not sure that's enough anymore." 

James returned four hours after he had left, in the company of the three agents who'd gone out looking for him. He had the good grace to look ashamed at the response to his disappearance and apologized to Commander Yondo for causing a disruption, but Natasha didn't think that was going to be the end of it. And it wasn't. There was no more running off, but there were plenty of other ways to run away. 

"Barnes asked to be put back in the field," Fury told her the morning before she was scheduled to leave for New York. "What's going on?" 

Natasha was surprised, but not shocked. "He's still adjusting to facing Steve," she settled on for an answer. It was an explanation without violating any trust.

Fury nodded. "So he needs a shrink, not a mission." 

"It's going to take longer for him than it did for me," she said by way of agreement. "And it took me a long time."

Natasha said nothing to James during the day because she knew it was going to go badly and she wanted her last day with Steve to be easy. Steve knew she was leaving, although he'd needed to be reminded once which day that was going to happen, and he let her stay during his lunch. 

"We've both seen Clint eat," she told him. "And he doesn't have the excuse of brain trauma." 

Clint was currently somewhere near Iran, possibly in Iran, on a mission that had nothing to do with looking for Belova. He knew about Steve, but hadn't been able to do more than text anyone. 

Natasha sparred with Agent Hassan in the afternoon, since she'd been promising him to do so from her prior visit. It turned into a lesson first for Hassan, who had strong foundations but poor anticipation, and then into a larger group exercise that culminated in her and James facing off. They started off slowly, talking the agents through their moves and countermoves, but it escalated and they stopped explaining and started focusing on winning. James pinned her, but she'd performed respectably. 

After she showered and changed, she heard a familiar voice in Steve's room. 

"Hey," Bruce greeted her once she came to stand behind Steve's chair so that she could be seen on the camera. "We were just talking about you."

"Oh?" She looked down at Steve, who looked up with innocence in his eyes that fooled no one. For all that he had trouble communicating, there was a lot going on in his head. "Only good things, I hope."

"Would we confess to anything else?" Bruce asked with a smile. "Actually, we were reminiscing about when you and Tony started reliving the French Revolution with the bottle saber on New Year's Eve."

That had been the first one after the Battle of New York, one of the first times they'd all been together again after they'd all gone their separate ways. Tony had called them all back, possibly to see if they'd all come, and they had. 

"That was a good night," Natasha agreed. "And I think Steve did his fair share of decapitating that evening." 

Because Steve liked champagne and he loved bottle sabers and, after a few glasses, nobody thought Tony should be near bladed weapons. 

Steve shrugged. "A few." But he was smiling as he said it. 

Natasha spent a few minutes chatting with Bruce, whom she hadn't seen since bringing James to Tony's that first time, but then left the two of them alone because she knew that they hadn't been just strolling down memory lane. Bruce was an expert on having to learn how to take control of his body time and again and she suspected he might have some useful counsel for Steve. Who might listen to him with more attention than he did James or Peggy. 

Natasha's half-dreaded/half-anticipated conversation with James didn't happen until they were both in their bedroom for the night. 

"Why did you ask to go back out?" she asked as she finished packing. Agent Claes was going to drive her to the airport tomorrow morning, the usual pre-dawn departure. 

James pulled his head through the neck hole in the t-shirt he slept in and, for a moment, he looked like he might lie to her. "Fury told you." 

"Of course he told me," she replied, digging out the nude bra because her traveling outfit was going to include a white shirt. "He thought something had happened here."

James stood still, hands on his hips. "What did you tell him?" 

At that moment, she couldn't tell if he were more frightened that she'd gotten him sent away or that she hadn't. 

"I didn't tell him that you are spending your days trying to get Steve to hate you," she replied. "If that's what you want to know."

He'd started to turn around to empty his pockets on to the night stand, but he stopped. 

"He is so grateful that you're here with him," she pressed on. "It's all he's wanted since he first found out you were alive."

"He didn't know what I was when he first found out I was alive," James retorted, turning to face her again. 

"Do you know remember what he told you in Doomstadt?" Natasha asked instead of replying to what they both knew wasn't true. "He told you that he knew you, that he would always know you, even if you didn't know yourself. There isn't anything you can do, anything you can tell him, that will change that. But you are trying anyway and it's so hard not to get angry at you because all you're doing is hurting yourself. And that hurts him because you're using him to do it and he can't stop you."

She took a deep breath before speaking again. James didn't move, just waited, an unreadable expression on his face. 

"Please figure out how to live with other people accepting who you are. And figure out how to let yourself be loved," she said quietly. "I don't like what it says about what you must think of me when you try so hard to drive the goodness in your life away because you don't think you deserve it but you don't mind me."

They kept to their own sides of the bed that night and he pretended to sleep through her alarm and preparations for departure. 

New York was in high tourist season, lit up and colorful and noisy and crowded. She was going to be in town four days before getting sent to Amsterdam to start her first pair of missions -- another AIM scientist on the loose, then a HYDRA operation -- and she was maybe a little ashamed at how relieved she was to be back. The house in Wyoming was full of people she cared about and a group of agents for whom she'd developed great respect and camaraderie, but it was also... claustrophobic. There was no privacy and she didn't have it in her to be rude to anyone to get herself any. New York City was twelve million people who would pick you up if you tripped on the sidewalk, but who otherwise were happy to pretend you were invisible. It was anonymity and solitude and a white noise of taxi horns and bus brakes and sirens. It was the first chance she'd had to be alone with her thoughts in weeks, to not have to be any more considerate than not stealing someone's seat on the subway. To not have anyone's happiness -- or mental health -- in her hands but her own. 

"No face-breaking," she assured Clint when she called him that night, not expecting him to pick up. "Not that I don't want to maybe knock him around a little with a blunt object, but not for those reasons." 

She'd told him about Steve, they'd talked about that first, and how, for the first time, she thought there was a real chance he could get his life back. Not get Captain America back, but a 'live on his own without nurses' life. That was maybe something possible. 

And then she'd told him about James and his self-sabotage, about how they had all thought -- _she_ had thought -- that taking care of Steve would ground him as it had earlier. But it hadn't. He started his day in Steve's bathroom with a razor and a shaving brush in his hands and did two hours of PT a day with him and instead of finding peace in the act of taking care of Steve as he once had, he spent the time trying to push Steve into rejecting him. 

"He is still fucked in the head," Clint agreed. "Rome wasn't built in a day. He'll get better. Hopefully you'll still like him when he does." 

Clint was coming back to the States the day after she was leaving for Europe. He was going straight out to Nebraska once he got back, "do not pass go, do not collect $200, do not stop at 44th Street so someone can see you and think you're perfect for a mission they're planning." He was looking forward to seeing Steve, with whom he still hadn't had a chance to have so much as a phone call, let alone face time, but he was also looking forward to just being alone and at rest. 

"I'll keep an eye on 'em for you," he assured jokingly. Or mostly jokingly. Because Clint was maybe a little bit of a romantic at heart. 

There was, as expected, a dinner invitation from Pepper and Tony, but it came in the form of a party invitation, so Natasha slipped on a little green dress, curled her hair, and was Natalie Rushman for a night. It was a surprisingly good time and a really excellent way of slipping back into a work mindset -- Natalie was a familiar cover, easily worn like a pair of old jeans. 

The following morning, Natasha woke up to the news that Aleksander Lukin had been arrested for treason by Doom and Kronas Industries and all of its assets had been seized. The stock markets were going haywire.

For all that Doom had gotten played by Lukin, he was still a shrewd man. He had been the sole architect of Latveria's rise to its current status as the most important Eastern banking haven in Europe and he had, the financial experts at SHIELD assured, played his hand like a master. Kronas had been registered in Latveria and Lukin had all of his publicly held assets in Latverian banks. Of course there were slush funds elsewhere, both to hedge against something like this and then whatever he was using to fund HYDRA, but the asset seizures were comprehensive and completely legal under Latverian law. 

SHIELD's financial departments could stand up and applaud, but its field operations were in high gear because nobody knew what HYDRA's reaction would be. They didn't have a clear enough picture of how much of the day-to-day operations Lukin controlled -- really controlled, not just suggested or bankrolled -- or whether he would even authorize a response. Or whether he had the power to prevent one. But SHIELD now had years of monitoring HYDRA cells and there was some sense that any reaction sufficiently large to matter would be trackable. 

Natasha left for Amsterdam as scheduled. 

Rogue AIM scientists, they had realized, tended to be young men and women with doctorates in an engineering discipline, a ton of cash, and who had internalized too many of the wrong lessons from the unauthorized biographies of Tony Stark. Except none of them had a Pepper, which was why they were all caught sooner or later. They either led flashy lives in places like Macao or Amsterdam, complete with gaudy bodyguards and scantily clad eye candy, or they bought gorgeous homes in remote but beautiful spots that had state-of-the-art security and enough server power to backstop Wikipedia. They had no ideology, just brains and a desire for money or recognition or both. They were amoral -- the repentant ones were already getting out on parole -- and asocial. Natasha really rather thought that the work was beneath her skill level most of the time, but it also tended to be really, really satisfying to put her knee on their backs and press their heads to the floor with the hand not holding a gun and whisper sweetly all the ways their lives were going to crumble around them. 

Amsterdam took only a week because it was one of the blingy ones and the problem with new money was that it didn't come with a lot of experience spending it. If you were smart, you didn't buy the bodyguards who looked best in suits or who cost the most per week or who shot at everything first. 

From Amsterdam, it was a train to Lille because HYDRA had possibly gotten around to starting to revamp their sweet talk -- meritocracy, the power of education, blahblahblah -- and Lille was exactly the kind of place to refine it and make it work. 

In her hotel for the evening, she got a photo message from Peggy. It showed James and Steve sitting next to each other on the couch in the living room, presumably watching hockey because Agent Diaz's Avs jersey waspartially visible on the left side of the frame and there was a socked foot on the coffee table she knew belonged to Clint (she'd gotten him the Kermit socks as a gag gift the other year) on the right. Steve had a self-satisfied look on his face and James was laughing and there was, in that moment, nothing of their wounds and scars visible even to her trained eye. 

"There's hope," was Peggy's message. 

"Maybe," Natasha said out loud, then deleted the photo. It wouldn't be retrievable, no matter who had the phone -- Tony's design, not sold in any store -- which was why Peggy had risked sending it in the first place. To give her hope. She and Peggy had kept in contact as much as she was able to keep in contact with anyone not her handler while out in the field. James hadn't tried, nor had she tried to reach him. They weren't broken up, that she knew, but they were perhaps on break until James decided what to do about what she'd said. And then she would decide how she felt about his response and they would move on or they wouldn't. She'd meant it when she'd told him that she didn't like being considered tarnished enough to be an acceptable companion to a fallen man such as James considered himself. She didn't want to be on a pedestal -- and she knew how easy it was to put Steve on one -- but she couldn't let him think of her like something ruined instead. She'd fought too hard to stop thinking of herself like that and she would not let him bring her back down. 

Two days later, she got a text from Clint informing her that _Steve_ had given James the face-breaking talk. Peggy provided a fuller recap later on, saying that it had been part of a longer talk -- and this had been the most Steve had spoken yet by far -- about James's choices. "It was equal parts heartbreaking and hilarious and hopeful," Peggy reported. Not only for Steve's progress ("and yes, Steve threatening bodily harm is absolutely progress") but also for James's response. Which had not been to shut down or walk off, but instead to ask if they were back in Red Hook because Steve had just as much chance now of carrying out the threats he was making as he had in 1941. Steve's response to that had apparently been "have Hulk." 

Natasha put all of those thoughts aside while she worked. She had her cover and she was living it, going to coffee houses and clubs and bars where the sorts of people who should know better than to believe HYDRA but didn't tended to congregate. Most of what she heard was the same old palaver in a new suit, justifications for HYDRA's mass murders and promises for a new world built by worthy hands that found eager ears because the present was so _unsatisfying_. What was different was who was doing the speaking and who was doing the listening. She was sitting in quiet restaurants and genteel clubs where MEPs and permanent EU staff congregated when they wanted a little distance from watchful eyes, which was new. During Schmidt's reign, HYDRA had been something for the government to rally against, not let it seep into the roots and branches.

It was at one of these clubs that she saw a face she thought she might recognize. Russian, which made him stand out, and schmoozing with people she'd recognized as True Believers to the HYDRA cause. She surreptitiously took a photo -- Tony's phone was brilliant for many reasons, but that it had a positionable camera so you didn't have to face your subject was definitely one of its greater charms -- and sent it to James. If this were one of Lukin's men, he'd know. He texted her back a few minutes later with a name and a simple message. "Be careful with him. He'll know who you are."

Natasha left the club a few minutes and a dozen photographs later; Bobrov was starting to circulate.

Four days in Lille was enough to reap a file's worth of names and faces and confirm more of Sonia's warning that Lukin was turning HYDRA into an oligarchy of the middle management. Any more time and her cover would get too thin for safety and would probably ruin it for future use. She hopped on a train to Paris, ready to either go back to New York or head off on another mission; she was feeling good, content with what she'd done but ready to do more if required. She didn't even feel the first tendrils of burnout that often came with back-to-back missions.

"I need you to do a favor for me," Hill said over the phone the next day. "You're free to say no."

Hill didn't ask for favors often and from Natasha hardly at all. Favors for Hill were usually like favors for Fury -- jobs that required delicacy and skill and were usually at the behest of some other country's intelligence service, small single events that would nonetheless blow up spectacularly should they be discovered and the asking nation be anywhere involved. But the payoff was always worth it, worth risking one of SHIELD's best agents, and not only for whatever would get owed in return. This was why they were usually Fury's to ask for. If Hill was asking it was either because it was too insignificant to come from Fury, in which case Natasha would not be a likely candidate, or it was on behalf of someone(s) Fury wouldn't deal with. Hill had her own responsibilities, but some of them involved handling everyone that Fury wouldn't or couldn't.

"What's the job?" Natasha asked.

The next evening, she was flying first class from Paris to St. Bart's after first going on a shopping spree on SHIELD's credit card because she hadn't brought a thing she would need. Bathing suits and wraps, clothing almost entirely from couture houses' resort collections, shoes, jewelry, makeup and perfume and other items for a certain type of toilette, a few trashy novels to read poolside, and three stiletto blades that folded into tastefully engraved sheathes and a couple of lengths of wire that coiled up into powder compact, ready to be drawn like floss. Plus a mani/pedi and a facial and haircut because she needed to look pampered and softer around the edges than she could achieve on her own.

She'd enjoyed the preparations. She didn't enjoy shopping as an exercise or as a necessity or as a hobby, but she did enjoy nice things and enjoyed knowing about nice things. And shopping at this price point, where you walked into a fashion house and sat drinking tea and eating macarons while models paraded by with 'looks' you might consider, was nothing at all like going to Lord and Taylor's for a new shirt. Natasha was a little too short and a little too buxom to wear anything off the runway without alterations or considerations in mind, but she had a body that couture houses liked to dress because she could carry herself in a way that would show off their designs. And the cash to be indifferent about it, which only made them try harder.

St. Bart's was for the wealthy, but, as with AIM scientists, there were those who knew how to look good spending their money and those who simply looked gauche no matter how nice the clothes. Natasha needed to fit in with the former, so she'd chosen with care and walked through the resort like someone who had been to one before, instead of dying her hair a dishwatery blonde and presenting herself as yet another goggle-eyed Russian bimbo enjoying a vacation with her sugardaddy while his wife and kids went skiing in St. Moritz. Which was not to say that she did not end up talking about skiing with the attractive gentleman at the bar who earned a response from her by not by ostentatiously ordering the top-shelf drinks and instead asking the bartender what he liked to drink and then asking for two, one for the lady. It was just that they spoke of skiing in the Dalmatians, which was civilized because the Italians, unlike the Americans or those who catered to them, believed that skiing should be something to do between sumptuous meals and spa treatments.

It took two days to find her mark and two more days to make her move. She and Clint had once had a serious discussion about the various advantages and disadvantages of committing murder in a multiple-stall lavatory. On the one hand, you had to deal with the fact that they were rarely occupied by just your target and they always, always had acoustics like echo chambers. On the other, it was easy to clean up afterward, both for you and the poor maid who had to wash it all down after the police were through, and you could often buy yourself some time by locking the target in a stall.

The ladies washroom between the main bar and one of the restaurants had five stalls, which meant the likelihood of a line was miniscule, but the stalls also had the floor-to-ceiling doors that locked (from the outside) merely when closed. which generally bought hours of extra time before discovery. Natasha adjusted her makeup until it was just her and the target, a North Korean honey pot who'd seduced the director of research of a prominent German electronics firm doing sensitive work for the government. The woman knew her business; Natasha had watched her in action and had been impressed at the performance.

"But what you didn't factor in, and I realize that this lesson is coming too late for you to apply," Natasha explained as she watched her target slump, taking a moment to make sure that she didn't fall over and get discovered earlier by hitting the ground, "is that you have to be situationally aware. You played your mark beautifully. I learned from watching you work. But you did not pay enough attention to your surroundings. Once you are good enough to target the big boys, you are good enough to become a target yourself. You should always be aware of that."

The kill had been easy, no blood splatter, no defensive wounds, no noise, and Natasha wouldn't even need to pretend she'd spilled something on her dress to cover stains or rips. She pulled the door to the stall closed behind her and returned to the sink to wash her hands, then went to the mirrored vanity and adjusted her hair and makeup like every other woman girding herself for the return to the mating battle. She went back to the bar and finished her drink, ordering another and a fresh glass of water. She drank the water and surreptitiously poured most of her martini into the water glass because women of her cover's status did not nurse their drinks. And then she did it with another two rounds, 'accidentally' spilling the water glass the last time because the doctored liquid hadn't looked quite right because that last martini had had too much olive juice in it. (It had had the perfect amount for the martini, but too much to look like water.)

She got rid of the knife on the way back to her room, acted more bored than curious or frightened when the news circulated the resort the next day, and stayed for the balance of the week because fleeing the scene of a crime made you look guilty.

James sent her a photo of himself and Steve at the kitchen table with what she realized was a mound of bread dough between them. Steve was happily kneading while James was looking at the camera with an expression of bemused disbelief. "Peggy is collecting blackmail material," the accompanying message said. "I miss you."

She missed him, too, which had been part of the problem because that had started while they were still sleeping in the same bed. She missed the casual affection he offered so easily, far more so than she could. and the way he mixed courtliness and consideration and appallingly bad jokes and raw hunger, She liked who she was when she was with him. She wanted all of that back, but knew she couldn't bargain to get it. But she could reward any hint of its return.

"Miss you, too."

After St. Bart's, it was back to New York. She had debriefing to do, both the two assigned missions and then a private chat with Hill about her Caribbean vacation. There were also some administrative tasks to check off -- drug test, firearms qual, why did you claim a receipt for a bakery in Tallinn? -- and while she went into them with the intention of not shooting the messenger, she came out at the end of the day with a firm plan of stopping at Zabar's for cheese and bread, opening up a bottle of côtes du Rhône, and reading the last of her trashy novels while listening to _Electric Warrior_ and _Machine Head_.

While she waited for it to be decided when and where she would be sent next, she re-established contact with Wyoming. It had been three weeks since she'd left, during which much had happened. Steve had been working regularly with his new therapy team -- physical, occupational, speech -- and was showing further improvements on all fronts. He was speaking much more clearly and fluently -- there were still slurred words and the occasional wrong one, especially when tired, but he was up to complete and complex sentences -- and his balance had improved enough to make sitting in chairs possible and, as of two days ago, walking with assistance. Natasha had laughed hard enough to choke when James sent her a photo of Peggy's and Steve's canes leaning up against the wall together, with "Hers" and "His" written in block letters along the sides. Steve needed more than just the cane, but that was beside the point.

Steve had also gotten visitors for whom he could show off his expanding set of reacquired skills. Clint's vacation was over and he was back in the field, but Tony had been out to visit bearing therapy-related gifts and dragging along Bruce to help drive because Pepper couldn't get away. Bruce's restriction on visiting had been quietly lifted the other month; Natasha didn't know the details, but she suspected Pepper and Peggy were responsible.

And finally James. Natasha had spoken with him during a video chat with Steve, who in turn had expressed his frustration with the two of them. ("Aren't you so glad he's talking again?" James had asked her with mock irritation. "He starts feeding himself and suddenly he's qualified to be everyone's agony aunt.") But James had called her that evening and they'd spoken for an hour.

"I can't promise you I'm good," he'd told her. "I don't think I'll ever be good. But I'm better. Steve... he said he would forgive me until I could forgive myself. I told him that that might be forever and he said that that was fine, he was used to me being a little slow."

"You are," she agreed lightly. But there was a question in James's story, one she needed to answer, one way or another. "But you're generally worth waiting for."

Natasha's orders, when they came in, were not what she expected. Her next assignment was in two weeks, so if she wanted to go out to Wyoming, she could. So she did.

There was snow on the ground when she got there, at least two feet of it on the grass, although the roads had been clear on the way up from Denver. The snow was a week old, it was explained, two separate storms. There'd been a snowball fight in the backyard that had involved trench warfare and an improvised trebuchet and James being classified as a weapon of mass destruction because of his prosthetic arm. There was also an army of snowmen on the back deck, several of them Steve's. "Not the naughty ones," Peggy felt obligated to point out. "Although we did suggest."

Peggy was getting over a cold that had taken a lot out of her. James hadn't given details of how bad she'd been, but Natasha could tell she had been slow in her recovery and that James had been worried and Steve still was. She remembered that conversation between James and Peggy where they'd spoken of her death and suspected it was weighing on him a little, especially with Steve still so fragile despite all of his improvements.

Right now, Peggy and Steve were asleep, hand in hand, on the couch in the front room everyone used for quiet time, as opposed to the living room with the television and video games. Natasha had gone looking for Peggy to ask her a question and found them there and stayed, watching them from the doorway.

"We should wake them up and send them to bed," James said quietly as he slipped an arm around her waist from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder for a moment before letting her go. She grabbed his arm before it could withdraw and pulled him in again. She didn't want him being tentative around her; it wasn't who he was and it wasn't who they were. He followed without resistance, settling against her back and wrapping his arm tighter around her.

"We should take a picture," she replied, thinking of the awful and inevitable _later_.

"Not mutually exclusive," he pointed out, then his posture changed slightly. "We should go away for a day or two. Just have a little time when we're not running for borders or chasing cranky nonogenarians off to bed."

"You're a cranky nonogenarian, too," she pointed out, earning a protest squeeze of the arm snaked around her middle. "Are you sure?"

Because she was pretty sure this wasn't his idea, although she thought it might be a good one, and she wanted to know why he was agreeing to it.

"I want us to work, Natalia," he said seriously. "And I... I want to be us without any distractions, without any excuses, all of them mine. Even for a little while."

She mentally unpacked that to mean that he wanted a day away from the things that triggered his guilt and pain most easily so they could see what they had in each other. And his triggers, for better or for worse were mostly related to Steve. Steve and his incapacities, Steve and his forgiveness and faith, Steve and his ability to push past the obstacles that would stop lesser men and find his happiness, which was to hold hands with Peggy Carter as they slept. 

"Your ghosts are going to follow you wherever we go," she warned. "I'm one of them, too."

"You're the good one," he said, kissing her hair behind her ear. "What we had wasn't worth this--" he held out his left arm. "Nothing could be worth that. But you are still the only good part of that life, the only part I'm glad I remember."

And then he kissed her again, in the same spot, and let her go so that he could move past her into the living room, pull out his phone, and take a picture of Steve and Peggy.

Three days later, they drove out to Clint's place in Nebraska. He'd offered the use of it, which Natasha took to mean that it had been his suggestion in the first place. She could ask, but she wouldn't; he had his own reasons and while they were probably just that he wanted her to be happy and he seemed to genuinely like James, it could well be more, nothing to do with either of them at all. Clint guarded his heart so fiercely sometimes. She knew it wasn't anything to do with wishful thinking; the two of them had never been on a course for romance. They had been opponents and then, once they hadn't been, she had been in no frame of mind to consider any such entanglement and Clint wouldn't have asked even if he'd wanted to. She didn't think he'd ever wanted to. He had thrown away his honor and his freedom for her with nothing more to go on than his belief in her and they had risked their lives for each other too many times to count. They were closer than lovers and what they needed from each other -- what they _gave_ to each other -- would possibly be diminished by sex and she didn't think either of them would ever be willing to risk it.

She and James spent two days in Nebraska, not doing much because there wasn't much to do. They cooked for themselves, which didn't go terribly, and they sat curled up under one of the horseblankets on the couch that looked out on to the prairie vista, still snow-covered, and talked or didn't. They talked about their pasts -- their real pasts, not the ones constructed for them by Department X -- and their presents and what kind of futures were possible for people like them. Natasha didn't try to whitewash it, but she reminded James that she was much further along in the process of learning to live with oneself than he was and she did promise that it got easier. "It will never be easy," she assured. "But it eventually stops making you so eager to bleed." 

She told him about being motivated by everyone's (but Clint's) lack of trust and how Fury was very open about being ready to have her put down like a rabid dog until he finally decided that she wasn't a double agent. She said that the lack of trust had gone both ways, which was why she had pulled a gun on Coulson when all he'd been doing was reaching into his desk for a stapler. And she admitted that sometimes all of it had gotten to be too much and Clint was pretty much the only reason she had never run off. 

"When Steve showed up, he had no frame of reference for me, I was just Fury's favorite and then I was a teammate," she went on. "But he eventually learned all about me and that never changed anything. He never once held my past against me, never once judged me by anything other than what I showed him myself.... Let him in, James. It will do him good and it will do you even more."

James sighed and rubbed at his face with the hand that wasn't around her shoulders holding her against him. "I can't stop being afraid of what he'll see."

"He'll see you in all of your messed-up glory," she told him. "He's not going to turn away from you. And if somehow that ever happened, you'll do what I did when I lost his trust: you'll bust your ass getting it back. And then you'll take him out to dinner. He likes to eat."

On the way back to Wyoming, they stopped at the store for provisions for the house, which went through milk and butter at a prodigious rate. James found a giant can of peaches in syrup, slightly dented, and started laughing. He found a bow in the box of Christmas wrapping remainders and, when they got back to the house, presented it to Steve, whose laughter nearly brought the entire house running. Peggy, however, was probably the only other person save Natasha who got the joke. 


	14. Chapter 14

Natasha was startled awake by banging on the bedroom door. Next to her, James was already moving to sit up. 

"Condition Charlie," a voice announced loudly. "We are at Condition Charlie. This is not a drill."

"Solid copy," James called back as Natasha threw back the blankets and reached for the bedside lamp, turning it on to the dimmest setting despite the curtains being closed and the shade down. 

On the threat scale applied to the defense of the house, Charlie equated out to someone definitely on approach with hostile intent. They were about to be under attack. 

They got dressed in their uniforms, James armoring up his prosthetic and donning the Winter Soldier's gear, and checked their personal weapons before dousing the light and leaving the room. 

In the hallway, Steve was being assisted down the stairs by Claes and Hochimura, the two burliest of the security detail. This was protocol -- Steve and Peggy and the medical staff were to be rushed to the panic room in the basement. The detail agents had drilled this regularly, even before Steve had regained consciousness and they'd had to practice transferring a body to an ambulance stretcher. There was no question what happened now and Steve went along unresistingly, if unhappily. 

Natasha took the shield from Hochimura, since it was bumping into the banister on every step and presented a tripping hazard. At the bottom of the stairs, she tried to give to Steve, who would have been able to hold it himself. 

"Give it t'Bucky," Steve told him as he was half-dragged down the hallway to the basement steps.

"What am I going to do with it?" James asked from behind. The detail agents were moving around them, going to their assigned posts. Natasha and James would be stringers, moving where Commander Yondo wanted them. 

"Use it," Steve replied. There was a pause in their progress as the agents carrying Peggy down the basement stairs weren't clear yet. "You have before." 

James made a miserable face. "And that turned out so well." 

"You're here, aren't you?" Natasha pointed out, but to her left, Steve was also looking like whatever had happened the last time James had used the shield wasn't something he'd wanted to relive, either. 

"Exactly," James agreed easily and Natasha felt her anger rise because he _meant_ it. He grimaced at her almost apologetically. "Giving it back to Steve was the last thing I did before I fell."

This wasn't the first time James had expressed the regret that he hadn't been killed before he could become the Winter Soldier and a part of Natasha understood that he would likely always have that regret. But she hated to hear it nonetheless. She shoved the shield into his hands. 

"You won't fall again," she told him fiercely. "I won't let you." 

And then she turned away to go find Yondo because neither she nor James had radios. She found Yondo in the kitchen with Hostetler, the latter holding up a tablet that showed three clusters of dots approaching from the north, east, and south; the west had a rock formation within the trees that was good for training but bad for infiltration. Someone had done their homework; these were not amateurs. 

Hostetler gave Natasha and James, who had followed behind her, radios and earpieces. If anyone thought anything of James wearing the shield on his back, they kept it to themselves. Hostetler was the detail RTO and he did radio checks with all positions and then let Yondo start passing on intel and issuing orders. 

The conversion of the house from residence to fortress was quick and thorough and almost entirely complete. SHIELD had been notified, but the QRF was a half-hour out, Yondo warned them, and they would need to hold on that long. 

The QRF had no idea what they were flying into. Natasha knew the protocols for this, too; the Wyoming house didn't exist on any official SHIELD holdings, not even the list of black sites that was very unofficial. If additional support were ever required, as it was now, then a cover for the house existed, one that had been updated as Steve's condition had changed. The current one said that this was the retirement home for Peggy Carter, former SHIELD director, and she was entitled to her own security detail. In exchange for allowing SHIELD to use her home as a base of operations, that detail had been increased. Steve Rogers was nowhere involved; he was dead and had been for the better part of a year. At least until circumstances dictated admitting otherwise. 

"Both of you need to draw rifles and night optics," Yondo said when he was done on the radio. "Widow, I'd like you to join Gruning's unit, you'll be starting on the east side of the house. We'll thin the crowd before they get here, but we can expect contact up close. Mister Barnes, I'd like you to take command of the attic element."

The attic was a fortified weapons platform; there were heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, and James had helped refine the sniping positions. 

The armory was down in the basement; Natasha could see that the panic room was closed and secured as she picked up a rifle (FN SCAR, not her favorite, but the rifle of choice for SHIELD's Direct Action Service these days) and James found the XM2010 he used when he practiced here. Natasha also picked up a couple of extra clips for her pistols when she got the rifle; if she was going to be infantry, she wanted firepower. 

Diaz was coming out of the secure comms room as they re-locked the armory doors; he had been rigging the sensitive equipment and the computers to fry should the house be seriously compromised. 

The three of them were going up the stairs to the main level when the lights went out. 

"Right on time," Diaz sighed with false drama. "Now I'm never gonna be able to DVR _The Carrie Diaries_." 

The backup generator kicked in before they had gotten all the way up the stairs. 

Natasha parted from James with a nod; they weren't that kind of romantic. He went upstairs at a run, she went outside with Diaz, finding Gruning near the barricades that ringed the house, and putting on the NODs, which would be unneeded during the fight because there were floodlights, but might be helpful while they were waiting. They would at least allow her to see into the trees and fields, which was better than waiting in the dark not knowing what was coming.

She didn't like this, standing as a soldier. It wasn't that she thought the work beneath her, just that it wasn't what she was trained to do and she felt uncomfortable because of her inexperience. There was more to infantry work than standing in a line and shooting toward the enemy; fighting in a group required training and skills that Natasha did not possess commensurately with the ones she used on a regular basis. Or much at all, since even the Avengers's activities were not a useful practice for this kind of combat. She was a soloist by practice, although she could work easily enough with one or two others if she was familiar with them. But infantry work didn't rely on knowledge of her colleagues' particular specialties or skill sets; it relied on training that reinforced set responses to particular situations. Natasha did not have all of those responses ingrained, which could make her a liability to her own side -- or in danger herself -- if she chose the wrong response. She understood why Yondo had put her out here and put James, who had been an infantryman once upon a time, up top, but it was up to her to be more than just another body between the bad guys and Steve and Peggy. 

In her earpiece, she heard Hostetler report that the tangos were holding a hundred meters from the red zone, which was the outermost ring of their defense systems. 

"Eagle's Nest, feel free to prod them into action," Yondo said over the radio. Eagle's Nest was the attic position. Yondo wanted James and Lopresti, the other sniper, to force their attackers into moving before they were ready -- if they were waiting where they were, it was for a reason. 

James confirmed over the radio and in the quiet below, Natasha could hear the reports of two rifles, irregular but frequent, both men changing window positions because there were two of them and three angles of attack. 

Hostetler reported that the sniping was doing what it was supposed to, forcing the masses of assault troops into action, sending them forward toward the waiting defenses. But then he reported that more dots were appearing -- a second wave.

"This has got to be fucking HYDRA," someone said to Natasha's left. "How the hell did they find us here?" 

It was a mostly rhetorical question. With so much traffic to the house -- Avengers, doctors, food and supply runs -- there were any number of possible methods of discovery. 

Hostetler warned that the first wave of assaulters were entering the minefield. The landmines weren't always armed -- nobody wanted to draw attention by blowing a deer or an elk sky high -- but they were now and they'd been thickly emplaced and when the first one went off, the next ones were quick to follow. 

The explosions were too far away to be clearly seen; they were bright flares behind the trees through the night optics, but not bright enough to blitz the goggles into resetting. The noise of the detonations and the screams of pain and the shouts of the attackers were audible, but still too far away to be anything but a general chaos, dimly echoed in her earpiece as Hostetler passed on positional updates and Yondo's orders. The wind had not yet blown the smoke toward them, but the fog of war was descending. 

Natasha got rid of the night optics, closing her eyes to regain her night vision. The house had flood lighting that would be turned on once it became necessary and the goggles were starting to give her a little bit of a headache. 

Hostetler reported that the surviving assaulters were now entering the white zone, the second level of their defenses. The mines had taken out most of the first wave, but the second could proceed almost unimpeded -- there were still a few mines that were probably undetonated. 

"Ground teams, you might want to take a step back," James said over the radio. "Gunners, on my mark. Wachenauer, you fire before I tell you to, I am going to throw you off the roof."

It wasn't the Winter Soldier making the threat, Natasha heard. There was too much humor in the command voice. This might have been what Sergeant Barnes had sounded like once upon a time. 

Natasha knew what was coming, but she was still unprepared for the incredible racket of multiple heavy machine guns opening up at once. The low, growling _rrrippp_ was loud over her head, like standing next to an entire motorcycle gang revving up, and the tinkle of hot brass cartridges as they fell to the ground behind her was quieter but no less uncomfortable. She presumed the grenades were getting fired off as well, but those would have been a quiet _shoomp_ unnoticed under the greater noise. Around her, some of the other agents, military veteran almost to a man, joked about being back in Iraq or Afghanistan or Minyar or somewhere else where this had been the default state of things. They were comfortably antsy. Anticipatory. Natasha was probably a little closer to edgy. 

The white zone was on the near side of the trees that surrounded the property and the carnage the machine guns were inflicting was audible and, in some spots, visible, especially where the grenades landed. The dead lay where they fell, but the wounded and the untouched pressed forward and Gruning ordered them into firing lines behind the bulletproof barricades, reminded them to stay in their sectors, keep their eyes on their own business, and everything would turn out fine. 

Yondo ordered the floodlights on in three, two, one and anyone who hadn't already removed their night optics did so now. Natasha raised her rifle, bringing the butt of the stock to her shoulder and finding a comfortable position for it, and waited. 

The blue zone was the house and the area immediately surrounding it and this was where the battle had to end, one way or the other. Natasha waited for Gruning to give the command to fire before doing so, having to adjust her positioning because the recoil was manageable for a few rounds but harder to overcome with sustained firing. 

The roar from above grew quieter as the noise around her grew louder. They fired at everything that moved, be it wounded straggler stumbling forward from one kill zone into another or a charging assaulter in HYDRA tactical gear. But there were too many to be mowed down even by the fusillade from the ground teams and Natasha knew that they would be overrun shortly. When her rifle clip emptied, she didn't bother changing it out, just dropped it and pulled out a pistol; she'd be switching over to a knife soon enough. 

Their attackers, as they get close enough to be heard, were wearing HYDRA gear, but they were speaking Russian to each other, which was important. HYDRA had been too multinational to do anything but use English as their lingua franca, so that they weren't, that they were using _Russian_ , was meaningful indeed. 

"These are Lukin's people," Natasha said into her mic as she fired the last bullet from the pistol's clip, dropping it and slamming home a new one in a smooth motion. 

As the HYDRA assaulters cleared the barricades, Natasha pulled out her knives and went to work, letting her training and her instincts take over. She was in her element here, a melee where nobody could use firearms because everyone was too close together and her agility and her experience could overcome numbers and strength in her opponents and pain in her own body. She'd been grazed at the hip with a bullet and had taken a more direct shot to the back that had knocked her flat but not broken anything because the kevlar had held. It would still be a nasty bruise, possibly worse, but that was not a concern right now. 

She kicked a face, feeling the crunch of a nose even though the rubber sole of her boot, and felt her right arm being grabbed and yanked as someone else grabbed at her middle. She fired off one of the rounds on her right bracelet, getting her arm back as the grip on it disappeared, and went limp to twist in her other attacker's grasp, jamming her knife into his kidney as she felt a pistol barrel against her temple. She twisted the knife, shook her head violently, and kicked out with all of her strength, desperate to pull away from the gun at her head. She found herself on the ground, landing on the bullet wound but not feeling a thing except _alive_ as she stumbled back to her feet with a discarded HYDRA blaster in her hand, using it to end the wrestling match.

"The Winter Soldier's here!" she heard shouted by someone in Ukrainian accent. "He's _here_!"

Natasha was too busy to look for where James was; it made sense that he would come downstairs. This close to the house, neither the machine gunners nor snipers would be helpful and the SHIELD detail had undoubtedly suffered casualties and would need reinforcements. She reclaimed her knife from the side of one of the men she'd just killed and used the blaster to shoot the back of a HYDRA soldier getting the upper edge on Fallows. 

"The Winter Soldier is _here_ ," someone else called out. "Tell the Widow!" 

Natasha looked around sharply at that because she was sure that they hadn't meant her. Which in turn they meant the _other_ Black Widow. 

Belova. Belova was here. 

Natasha reported it on the radio, getting an acknowledgment from Yondo and permission from him to hunt her down. Which was something she wouldn't be able to do immediately because she was still going to have to fight her way clear to the house. Belova wasn't going to be in the mosh pit; she hadn't been leading the assault. She had come as a supernumerary, same as Natasha and James. 

"Is that Captain America's shield?"

"Why the fuck would he have that?" 

The first time James flung the shield, everyone on both sides was temporarily frozen in surprise and maybe awe. Most of the SHIELD agents and none of the HYDRA assaulters would have ever seen the shield in motion, the flash of metal as it screamed past. It didn't soar like a frisbee; it moved like a missile. People thought "shield" and figured it was for defense and that's usually how Steve had been depicted using it, but he'd turned it into an awesome and terrifying offensive weapon as well. 

And James, who would have known that better than anyone, had just upped the ante because he had clearly thrown it with his prosthetic -- Natasha knew how hard it was to throw with any power or accuracy and the speed at which it had moved was not something that human strength could have authored -- and he had thrown it at neck height, which was guaranteed to be fatal with even the most glancing contact. Crushed windpipes, severed arteries, a direct shot was a decapitation waiting to happen. Steve had usually aimed higher or lower, but the Winter Soldier was nothing if not efficient when to came to killing. 

The shield must have taken out at least half a dozen before it ricocheted off a tree and James, running from the moment he had loosed it, leaped up to catch it in his left hand and pivoted in the air to deflect the bullets that came toward him because the moment of shock had passed and Captain America's shield was doing what it had always done and drawn attention. 

The shift in focus allowed Natasha to make a break for the house, the battle picking up with a different beat to the drum of war behind her because she could hear the _whap-whap-whap_ of the SHIELD helicopters as she ran up the stairs to the front porch. 

"Get out of my way!" she yelled in Russian to the pair of HYDRA troops on the porch. They were momentarily confused -- a woman ordering them around in their native tongue demanded obedience, but then they realized it was Natasha and not Belova. But it was too late for them and she shot them both in the face with her pistols as she ran past. 

The house had already been breached; the front door was off its hinges and Dunbar and Park were down, condition unknown beyond 'not good,' as Natasha passed them. She didn't bother doing a proper room-to-room, instead going straight for the basement steps because that's where anyone would know the important business was being conducted. 

She had a flashbang grenade on her, an impulse grab when she'd been in the armory earlier and she tossed it down the basement stairs, hoping the distraction was enough to get her down without getting killed. 

It was. Barely. 

Natasha shot the three HYDRA soldiers near the foot of the stairs before they'd recovered, bringing Belova and another soldier out from the secure comms room. Without giving anything away by turning her head, Natasha could see that the panic room had been unnoticed; the bookcase that slid in front of its entrance was entirely undisturbed. 

"Oh, good," Belova said happily when she saw Natasha. "I can take care of this, too." 

And then she turned to her compatriot and shot him in the forehead. 

"I want this to be just between us," Belova explained, coming fully into the main room. "I don't like to share. Not glory, not lovers, and not my name."

Natasha relaxed her muscles group by group, trying to speed up her recovery from her exertions. Belova still had a pistol in her hand, so Natasha didn't holster hers, but she was pretty sure Belova wasn't going to shoot her. This wasn't going to be about efficiency; this was going to be about enjoying what Belova seemed sure was going to be an inevitable victory. Belova was close enough that Natasha could tell that she was on something, some kind of upper -- amphetamines, some kind of custom cocktail, _something_ that made her eyes a little too bright. 

"You're just the latest Black Widow," Natasha said calmly, hoping to draw Belova out until reinforcements arrived for either side -- the distraction and confusion would be an advantage and Natasha would need every one she could get. She hadn't liked James's assessment of Belova's abilities compared to her own, but she wouldn't dismiss them, certainly not when seeing Belova in person. Natasha was sore, she was wounded, she was tired, and Belova was rested and high enough not to care about pain. "You're not the original, you're not even the best. You're just the latest. Soon enough, they'll find someone else."

Belova laughed, like she could clearly see what Natasha was doing and was amused at its desperation. Fair enough. But Natasha was still not going to make the first move. 

Belova did, coming at her with a shocking burst of speed that had Natasha turning into a defensive position because there was no way to bring the pistol in her hand up fast enough. They went to the carpeted ground hard and immediately started grappling for the upper hand. Natasha was smaller, she weighed less, and she was exhausted going against Belova's drug-assisted power. But Natasha was not helpless. She had had years of learning how to fight hand-to-hand against all kinds of opponents, male and female, bigger and smaller, stronger and not. She had broken bones and torn muscles and ligaments learning lessons that she now employed here, letting Belova think she was getting her way while Natasha maneuvered herself out of the most dangerous positions. 

Natasha still had a small dagger in her boot, not long enough to get Belova in the heart and she didn't think she still had the strength to go through any kind of bone, but any soft spot would do and if Belova wasn't going to be stopped by pain, then Natasha could still render her ineffective by cutting tendons and arteries. 

"Lukin's going to laugh," Belova said as she slipped free of Natasha's grapple, pinning Natasha in turn and grabbed Natasha by the hair, slamming her head hard enough on the floor to see stars. "We came here for Peggy Carter hoping she'd lead us to the Winter Soldier, but he's already here. Bastard's going to think it's part of his divine plan, but we both know better than that, don't we, Natasha."

Natasha kept her eyes closed and reached down her own body. Belova had left her right leg free and if she could bring it up enough, she could get the dagger handle with a reach.

Belova shifted, bringing her knee down hard on Natasha's pelvis. Natasha cried out, but fought through the pain and the urge to vomit to grab the hilt and pull, bringing it up and then down hard into the back of Belova's left knee. 

Belova grunted, then laughed. "It's all right. I was going to kill you now anyway."

Natasha couldn't get the dagger free again and had to fight for her life empty-handed and with blood pouring into her right eye and a right arm that didn't want to cooperate. Belova had been _toying_ with her, she realized, because all of a sudden, Belova was moving quickly, confidently, and with so much strength and Natasha knew that she was in very deep trouble.

The fight felt like it was going on forever, but it was probably only a couple of minutes before she was pinned again, Belova's knee on her chest and her hand around her throat squeezing tight. Belova's other hand came over her face, pinching close her nose and covering her mouth. Natasha shook her head as hard as she could to break the strangulation hold because she _couldn't breathe_. She had the surge of adrenaline from panic and desperation, enough for one last push, the rush of blood in her ears drowning out Belova's laughter, but it wasn't enough and the world through her one good eye was starting to gray out until it went black. 

It took her a heartbeat to realize that she wasn't dead -- that she _had a heartbeat_ \-- and that she could breathe, barely and badly because she was being smothered and didn't have the strength to push her way free to more air. Until suddenly she could breathe, great gasping lungs of still-smoky air, as the weight was lifted off of her. 

Belova's body, sans most of her head, lay off to the side, flung by James's left arm, the right still holding the .45 he'd shot her with. Natasha lay there, gasping and choking and trying not to breathe in the gore that was all over her face as she looked up at him, too exhausted and too high on the adrenaline spike to even feel relieved. To feel anything, really, which was why she allowed James to pull her up with her right arm despite the shoulder being dislocated. 

She stood on unsteady legs as James wiped her face with his hand, then wiped his own hand on his pants and looked her over. "Let's get that shoulder in before it starts to swell," he said softly and Natasha understood the words, but they didn't seem to penetrate because James had to pull her in, bringing her head to the crook of his neck and holding her tight with one arm as he positioned her to pop the joint back into place. He did it without warning and she bit back a grunt, but then it was done and the pain of it changed to something less acute, but it still all didn't quite register. 

"I think I'm in shock," she said against his neck.

He chuckled. "No kidding. Let's get you sitting down before the shakes start." 

But he didn't move, instead put his other arm around her and held on tightly, kissing her forehead. 

"They wanted you," she said, shifting so that her words weren't lost against his chest. "They wanted to get Peggy to get to you."

She felt him sigh more than she heard him. "I know," he said softly. "Come on, let's go upstairs."

Steve and Peggy and the others were a few feet away and Natasha wanted to go to them, but she knew it wasn't a clear thought or a good idea; they were safe and would remain so. Instead, she let James guide her toward the stairs, going up first himself in case there was trouble but holding her her hand in his. 

There wasn't trouble. The house itself was secure, although there was still action going on outside, just skirmishes to round up the prisoners; the triage of the wounded was already underway. James left her at the kitchen table banquette with a wounded Snyder, guarded by Diaz, who was sporting a shallow gash across his face but seemed otherwise okay. Natasha closed her eyes and leaned back as the first tremors hit, doing what she could to fight off the worst of the shakes and chills by focusing on listening to what was going on around her. Diaz was helping Snyder make coffee and tea and dig up food for people to eat; he was talking on the radio; Hostetler had been killed and his duties had been transferred to Diaz. Outside of the kitchen, she could hear discussions about medevacs and prisoner transport and the ETA of the clean-up crew because the house would have to be evacuated and then sanitized. 

Natasha focused on the counts of the wounded and killed; the SHIELD detail had done remarkably well considering that they'd been up against a force that was turning out to be at least five times its size. They would have to wait for full daylight -- it was still barely dawn -- before getting a full sense of the carnage in the red and white zones. 

In the dining room, QRF commander was talking to Yondo, offering to stay longer despite orders to leave as soon as the site was secure. Yondo was clearly torn -- he wanted the extra manpower, but he knew that the QRF team wasn't cleared to know what was really going on here. 

"We'll be okay," Yondo finally told the commander, whose name Natasha had never caught. "This was intended to be a one-shot assault; if there's another, it won't be until after we're long gone."

Natasha didn't realize she'd dozed off until she was being woken up by James with a hand on her shoulder. She startled and then was fine, feeling refreshed for however long she'd been asleep, which hadn't been that long if the still-warm cup of coffee in front of her was any indication.

"We have work to do," James told her, no trace of a smile on his face or warmth in his voice. The Winter Soldier was very near the surface and she reached out for him, wincing at the reminder that her shoulder had been out of its socket so very recently. Either the motion or her reaction to it seemed to jar him loose a little and when she met his eyes, she saw _James_. 

She drank the coffee, pausing to add some milk and accept a few naproxen tablets, and stood up, following James into the living room, where three HYDRA-clad operatives, bloodied but not seriously wounded, were sitting bound to dining room chairs at wrists and ankles. The QRF commander, whose name tape said Steiglitz, was questioning the first of the three, who was clearly feeling the effects of a painkilling injection -- he had a bullet wound in his thigh, Natasha could see as she came closer. James had stopped by the entry, not letting himself be seen. 

".... the old woman, Winter Soldier come for her," the prisoner was saying in barely understandable English, his accent made even worse by slurring words. The painkillers were kicking in hard and they'd be lucky to get anything else out of him. "Worked before."

Steiglitz tried to do what he could, even asking Natasha to repeat his questions in Russian, but the prisoner's eyelids drooped and there was nothing else intelligible to be gotten in any language. She shrugged at Steiglitz, who shrugged back and turned to look at James, who nodded and stepped forward. 

"You wanted the Winter Soldier," he told the other two in a quiet, bloodless voice. "You have him."

He was speaking Russian, but Natasha didn't think Steiglitz needed to understand the words to realize that he'd gotten perhaps more than he'd bargained for by asking James to help. This wasn't James. He'd been speaking the truth. This was the Winter Soldier. 

The two remaining prisoners had the look of combat veterans, but of different stripes. Natasha would bet that the one on the left was career mafiya before he'd found his way to either HYDRA or Lukin; he had that hard look about him. The other had the delicate odor of a true believer, someone whose survival skills had probably surprised everyone including himself; he looked like the easier nut to crack and Natasha wasn't surprised that James stopped in front of him. 

"What does Lukin want with me?" James asked in that same low voice. 

"He wants to cleanse Russia of all that ails her," the true believer announced, like he was speaking to a crowd. Except he was speaking in Russian and there were precisely three people in the room who understood him and none of them cared. 

James unholstered his .45, pressed the muzzle to the guy's knee, and fired all in one motion. The entire room exploded -- SHIELD didn't shoot prisoners -- but James held everyone off with a single look. He wasn't SHIELD and he would do what he needed and there wasn't anyone in the room who was going to stop him. 

Natasha felt everyone's eyes on her, expecting her to do something and silently imploring her when she did not, but she ignored them. Ignored James, who had shot her a quick look, a challenge, before reaching down to pick up the prisoner, whose chair had been knocked over backward as he'd tried to get away. James pulled him up by his uniform top, setting the chair upright. 

And then he put the .45 to the guy's forehead. "Talk."

The words flowed freely, a babbling stream of how Lukin wanted Peggy to get James back. But instead of saying why, he started telling them about how they'd found the house through trying to track Peggy, who was not at the assisted living facility she'd claimed to have moved to. He was in the middle of explaining how that had worked when all of a sudden, his eyes rolled back and he passed out. 

James tipped the chair back over with a kick and turned his attention to the third prisoner, who had remained unfazed by what had happened to his comrades. Natasha thought he looked like the third little piggy, with the house made of brick, as he faced down the wolf blowing at his door. 

Off to the side, QRF agents dragged away the second prisoner and started treating his wound and unbinding his wrists and ankles. Natasha could hear someone muttering about lawsuits, which was both ridiculous and not and completely irrelevant. 

"Why does Lukin want me?" James asked again, not bothering to move the pistol from where it hung loosely in his hand at his side. The threat was no less valid and this one, the third little piggy, was smart enough to appreciate that. But he didn't look worried and that, in turn, made Natasha nervous. 

The third little piggy smiled. "Sputnik," he said and then James was falling, dead weight, and Natasha was in motion before Steiglitz could regain control of the room, ordering the remaining prisoner gagged and all three bound and prepped for transit. 

James was breathing easily, slowly and deeply, but he was out cold and Natasha couldn't rouse him. Claes helped her move him to one of the couches. 

"What happened?" Claes asked as she rearranged James's arm so that it wasn't pinned against the couch cushion; if he woke up feeling restrained, that could make things very bad indeed.

"Trigger word," Natasha answered. "He didn't get his memories back by breaking his conditioning." 

The true meaning of what she'd said hit her a moment before it hit Claes. 

"So he could..." Claes trailed off, professional concern warring with the memories of the guy who'd almost singlehandedly won a snowball fight only a couple of weeks ago. 

"He could," Natasha agreed as she stood up. "Stay with him and call me the minute he so much as twitches."

She went looking for Yondo, finding him with Steiglitz on the back deck. further out in the yard, the QRF personnel were loading up the helicopters in preparation for departure. 

"You have an extra prisoner stretcher?" she asked Steiglitz, who looked confused for half a beat, then nodded. 

"You think you're gonna need it?" he asked. "Should I leave a couple guys behind?" 

Natasha shook her head. "I don't know if we're going to need it, but we're going to use it just in case," she said. Steiglitz was a commander; technically he outranked Natasha, but most of the best QRF commanders gave the Avengers leeway when it came to being out in the field. The Direct Action Service hated working with the Avengers, but they respected them. "And I don't think a couple of extra men is going to make a difference. The Winter Soldier wakes up, we're in trouble."

Steiglitz chuffed out a humorless laugh. He'd just seen the Winter Soldier in action, or so he thought. None of them had any idea of what James was truly capable of in a fight. 

"I'm going to take the ambulance," she told Yondo. The detail had an armored ambulance in a building on the property, fully functional, in case they'd ever had to move Steve or Peggy to a hospital. "I'm going to take him out to someplace quiet and wait to see who wakes up."

Until they knew what -- or who -- they were dealing with, they had to keep James as far away from Steve as possible. If he woke up as the Winter Soldier once more, they couldn't put Steve in immediate physical danger. If he woke up as the Winter Soldier with James's memories and knew that Steve was alive, then Natasha was going to have to know in advance what she was going to have to do: if she killed the Winter Soldier to protect Steve, Steve would never forgive her, but if she let him live and he came back to kill Steve or Peggy, she'd never forgive herself. 

Steiglitz would think that she was protecting Peggy and the detail, but Yondo understood what the real purpose was and what, potentially, was at stake. He looked at her with such compassion in his eyes that Natasha had force herself not to look away. 

"Tell me what you need," he told her. She nodded, then excused herself and ran to where the helos were already starting to spin up so that she could get a prisoner stretcher. 

Hochimura helped her get it up the steps and then carried it into the living room. He and Claes got James transferred to the stretcher, but before they started in on the restraints, Natasha had to strip James of weapons, which required rolling him from side to side to remove belt and boot knives and his tactical gear and the dozen other weapons of various obviousness that James kept on his person. And then she took off his arm, which visibly disturbed Claes, and opened up the hidden panel on the interface where the power supply was and pulled that out, too, because while she'd never seen it in action, she knew Tony had given James some kind of remote control access over the arm and she didn't know the range. 

"Store them carefully and keep them safe," she told Hassan, who'd come over to help and was shifting the weapons into bags. "He can be fussy about his toys."

By the time they were done strapping James down with all of the restraints, the QRF team was gone and Yondo was back inside. 

"Fallows is getting the ambo," he told her. "Now that it's just us again, would you like to go open up the panic room? I think Captain Rogers and Ms. Carter would appreciate a familiar face as the first they see."

Natasha smiled as best she could because he was doing her a kindness, especially because she was going to have to tell them about James -- and Belova -- and doing that in front of witnesses, even friendly witnesses, would be uncomfortable for her and for Steve. 

The procedure to open up the panic room was complicated to make sure that it was not being done under false pretenses, but once all of the steps and confirmations had taken place, the bookcase was shifted and then there was the quiet hiss of the security doors. 

The panic room was large enough that the half-dozen people who'd been in it hadn't been cramped or claustrophobic. It was well-lit, comfortable, and smelled faintly of chamomile because the occupants had been drinking tea as part of their breakfast. 

"Don't you look a fright," Peggy said, but gently because she could tell that Natasha was exhausted, injured, and something had gone wrong. 

"You okay?" Steve asked as Natasha stepped aside so that Felicity could pass. He was sitting in the armchair next to Peggy's, still in his pajamas and bare feet, but he was looking her over as critically as he ever had in the field while wearing his uniform. "Under the circumstances."

Natasha was careful not to shrug because naproxen was better than tylenol, but it only did so much. "I'm beat to hell and was about three seconds from being suffocated to death," she said, surprisingly herself with the honesty and then feeling embarrassed for it. "It'll heal."

Steve made a face that she translated into him deciding not to press her on the lie -- they both knew that coming so close to death didn't fade as quickly as a bruise.

"What won't?" he asked gently. Warily. Because Steve knew that James would be here checking on him if he could, even if he was supposed to be doing something else. 

Peggy reached over and put her hand on his and he turned his wrist so he could hold on, too. 

"Our visitors were from Lukin," Natasha began. "They were wearing HYDRA gear, but whether they were HYDRA-HYDRA or Lukin's new HYDRA, we don't know and I'm not even sure it makes a difference. They came here looking for you, Peggy. They came here hoping to grab you to flush out James so Lukin could get his favorite toy back." 

Both of them looked stricken for a moment, but Peggy's look quickly turned into anger, then concern as she glanced back at Steve, who was now clearly expecting to hear the worst. 

"He's here and he's alive," Natasha hurriedly assured him, waiting for him to exhale and relax a little before she said anything more. He was still holding Peggy's hand tightly. 

"But," Steve prompted. 

"But one of the prisoners used a trigger word on him during the interrogation," Natasha continued. "Knocked him out cold. His vitals are fine, but we can't rouse him yet."

Steve absorbed this, then furrowed his brow. "So what's the problem?" 

Natasha thought, from the look on Peggy's face, that she might have already realized what it was. "We don't know if the trigger did anything other than knock him out. We don't know who wakes up, Bucky Barnes or the Winter Soldier."

Steve looked like he was about to protest, but then he looked over at Peggy and didn't. He deflated instead, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes, leaving Peggy and Natasha to exchange worried and rueful looks. 

Without waiting for Steve to open his eyes, Natasha explained what they were doing for and to James, how she would take him somewhere isolated and hope for the best and prepare for the worst. She was vague about that last part, but she had no misconceptions that Steve understood every single word she wasn't saying. 

"I want to see him before you go," Steve said, almost challengingly. 

"Of course," Natasha agreed easily. "I'll go grab Hochimura and we'll get you upstairs right away."

Right away was closer to twenty minutes, but James wasn't moving even a little, so there was no hurry.

Belova's body had been removed earlier, but there was still blood and gore all over and it would have been obvious what had happened in the space. Steve, of course, made the connection between Natasha's confession and the scene and he gave her a look that Natasha knew to translate into "I'm glad you're alive." 

"It was Belova," she said, which surprised Steve and Peggy, who was right behind him with Joanne helping her out. "James killed her."

That Steve's 'assassination' had been avenged had turned out to be almost a minor detail on the morning's activities. It had been anticlimactic and, if she'd had had a chance to ask James, he probably would have agreed that he felt no better for having done what he'd promised to do. 

"Good," Peggy said firmly. 

The house was chaotic in a less frantic way by the time Peggy and Steve got up to the main level. The remaining agents were in the process of stripping the place down, everyone's personal effects being packed, all of the food, even the video game consoles were being boxed and prepped for transport. In addition to the ambulance and other vehicles, the detail had tractor trailers on call because moving -- and possibly moving quickly -- had always been a probability. SHIELD had a lot of experience evacuating facilities, safehouses and publicly known properties both, and once Steve and all evidence of his existence was removed, the professional cleaning crews would come through. Natasha suspected that the final steps might involve setting the entire place on fire -- fingerprints and DNA couldn't be left to risk discovery -- but didn't know the details. 

Steve, with Hochimura helping him on the other side from his cane, walked slowly into the living room and action there quieted to a halt. Claes, who'd been sitting next to James's gurney, stood almost to attention. Natasha noticed that Steve's shield was on the other couch, next to the box with James's weapons, atop which sat his arm.

"At ease, soldier," Steve told him with a smile that Natasha could tell was fake but didn't think Claes could. 

Steve steered himself and Hochimura over to the opposite side of James's gurney from Claes, who backed up to give Steve some privacy. Hochimura did the same as soon as Steve was balanced by leaning on the locked gurney. Steve shuffled forward until he could turn James's head toward him and lean forward until their faces were only inches apart. He said something to James, but Natasha wasn't close enough to make out the words and, besides, they weren't for anyone to overhear. And then he leaned forward and kissed James's forehead and then stood up. He looked over at Natasha. 

"You'll bring him back," he said, not making it a question. 

Hochimura and Claes moved the gurney out to the ambulance and secured it in the rear while Natasha met with Yondo, who asked her if she wanted anyone along and then, when she said no, handed her a paper map with a point circled and coordinates and directions written on the side. 

"It makes Yoder look like Manhattan," he explained, referring to the nearest town, which wasn't exactly near or much of a town. "You'll have space."

Then he gave her the protocols for contact, when he would call if she didn't, what would happen if they needed to be retrieved, which Natasha was grateful for because he meant the plural when they both knew it could very likely be just her. Then he wished her godspeed and let her go. 

She went upstairs to change into civilian clothes and to pack her things and James's things, leaving the bags in Steve's room so that they'd be collected. 

Diaz stopped her on the way out, holding up a shopping bag. "Thermos of hot cocoa with a couple of shots of espresso," he said. "Some fruit and sandwiches and stuff we're packing up out of the fridge. And the last of Gruning's cranberry handpies, since Mister Barnes likes those."

She smiled, because the alternative was to start crying, and thanked him. 

Once in the driver's seat of the ambulance, she studied the map directions for a few minutes before turning the key in the ignition. She drove quickly but carefully, not wanting to draw attention -- or more attention than a private ambulance would. The trip took a little more than three hours, during which there wasn't anything coming out of the monitor from the rear. She pulled over off the road, which by this point was an unpaved local route, and waited a few minutes before getting out. 

She walked around the ambulance, looking around with her naked eyes and then with binoculars, and decided that this place would do. She unlocked the rear and checked on James, whose pulse and breathing were still normal and he was showing no signs of being close to waking. She'd seen him sleep and she'd watched him wake, both as Bucky-James and Winter Soldier-James, and she didn't think he could fool her. He twitched in his sleep right before he woke, sometimes strongly enough to wake her if she was close enough, and she didn't think he even knew that he did it, let alone that he'd be able to control it. 

It was freezing cold again after a 'warm' spell that had been enough to get rid of the snow, but she wasn't ready to sit watch over James just yet, so she took another brisk march up to the road and back again, then again, then checked on James, covering him with the blankets she'd been given so she could leave the door ajar as she sat on the rear bumper and pulled out her phone. 

"Hey," Clint answered, loud music in the background. He was out, wherever he was. She didn't even know what continent he was on. "I thought you weren't back in New York until Monday."

"I'm not," she said, realizing her voice would give her away only after she spoke. 

Clint said something in Hebrew to someone else, not bothering to cover the phone, then: "Give me two minutes and I'll call you back. Is that okay?" 

He was asking as much about her as whether it would be safe for her phone to ring. She agreed, then spent the time until her phone vibrated in her hand walking loops around the ambulance. 

There was no background noise when Clint called back. "What happened?" 

She told him about the assault on the house, about what James had done and then what had been done to him, what she was doing now and the various expectations for what would happen next. Her voice didn't break, but it came close a few times and she paused to regain control, Clint waiting her out patiently. 

"Do you know what you're going to do?" Clint asked after she was done explaining how she was sitting in the middle of nowhere watching over her lover to see if he woke up as friend or foe. 

If James became the Winter Soldier again, then he'd be Lukin's to command and Lukin, even with his eyes on Russia, wouldn't leave such an opportunity to waste. James knew about Steve, knew about what SHIELD was up to, knew everything about the Avengers and Doom, and Lukin would take all of it and use it against them without hesitation. He would be able to do what Schmidt never could. If she let the Winter Soldier go -- if she even died in the attempt to stop him -- then all was lost. So she had to be prepared to act first and quickly. 

"I'm going to kill him," she said. "If he wakes up as the Winter Soldier, we're never getting him back." 

Steve might never forgive her, but he'd also never believe the truth, which was that even if the conditioning was broken for good, even if James knew himself again, he'd never recover from it. If James did something while under the Winter Soldier spell, to Steve, to Peggy, to her, to America, he'd be lost forever. He wouldn't let them try to save him again and he'd take care of the 'problem' by himself, as he had very probably intended to do last time. Except that this time there would be no revenge spree first. 

Clint didn't try to give her hope or assure her that things would never come to that, nor did he tell her that she was brave or a good soldier or a good anything else. They'd never really spoken much about his time under Loki's control, about what she might have had to do, what she had been prepared to do when they'd finally met if simply knocking him on the head hadn't worked. He understood, probably better than anyone, what was going on in James's head and why it was both similar and so very different to what had gone on in his own. He wouldn't give her his blessing to kill James if she had to because she didn't need one, but he understood why it would be necessary here and he would be one less pair of judging eyes for her to face later. 

Instead, he started telling her a story from his time in the Army, some tale that got more byzantine and ridiculous as it progressed, until he finally got to the punchline, which involved a camel wearing bells. There was no point to it, it had no relevancy to anything that had happened today, but Clint knew that there was nothing _to_ say about what was going on, no right words, so instead of choosing wrong ones, he went off on his own tangent because silent support didn't work well over the phone. 

"You call me when this is over, Natochka," he said before hanging up. "Even if Bucky wakes up and wants to know what's for lunch. I don't care what time it is or if you don't have anything to say. Promise me."

She did, then tucked her phone in her coat pocket and got into the ambulance to wait. 

James didn't stir until late afternoon, the twitches she'd been waiting for starting and then stopping and then starting again. She was almost relieved by that point; the tension and the anticipation and the dread had become unbearable. She'd been trapped in the ambulance's rear compartment with nothing but her hopes and fears, watching James, who had been her past, was her present, and could be her future, and wondering if she was always destined to destroy her own happiness. She was exhausted from the pre-dawn raid and from fighting for her life and the emotional stress of what had happened afterward and it was wearing away at her defenses. 

She'd spoken to Yondo at the prescribed times and Fury, who'd called her already knowing what was going on and hadn't pretended like he didn't know what she was going to do. She'd eaten lunch and had some of the cocoa and gone for quick walks to keep from getting sleepy or when her head got too full. But now she sat watching and waiting, a tranquilizer gun in her hand because if she had to use it, she could hit James anywhere and it would work while a bullet would have to hit something important to matter and might not be enough. If she had to kill him, it would be easier for her and kinder to both of them if he was unconscious. 

James came awake slowly at first, then suddenly and completely and in a panic because he sensed the restraints and the missing arm. He tried to fight his way free, rocking the gurney.

"James, stop it!" she barked out in English and he turned his head, wild-eyed and then _seeing_ her and stilling. 

"Why?" he asked hoarsely, confusion on his face. 

"What's the last thing you remember?" she asked instead. 

James furrowed his brow, like he was trying to chase thoughts. He had relaxed his body as if he were satisfied with his own safety, even under restraint, but she couldn't rely on that. 

"The house getting attacked," he began, then his eyes grew wide. "Steve?"

"Do you remember who you killed?" Natasha asked rather than answer anything about Steve. If James were himself, he'd understand later even if he was still looking frantic now. 

He stared at her for a long moment, then his face cleared. "Belova," he answered. "She was killing you." 

She'd had all afternoon to come up with ways to try to prove that James was himself and not the Winter Soldier pretending to be James. The best she'd been able to come up with was simply to get him to talk and gauge his responses and his patience. The Winter Soldier was arguably the world's most lethal assassin, but his covers, in as much as he had ever used them, had been simple. He had never been trained to pretend to be someone else for an extended time, to have to convince other people that he was someone other than who he was. For the Winter Soldier, being Bucky Barnes again would be difficult to sustain, especially up against Natasha, who knew him so well. 

So they talked about inconsequential things that still required details and reactions from him, moving from topic to topic and she watched and he was letting her, not pressing for information about Steve or what had become of the safehouse or its survivors. 

"Natasha," he finally said. "I gotta pee, so either you make your call on me or grab a cup."

The look on his face was pure _James_ , unapologetic and amused and wry and expectant and a little bit of a dare. 

She'd already seen enough to be as convinced as she could be without any way to know for sure, but his expression helped a little nonetheless. Which did not mean that she wasn't still holding the tranquilizer gun after she undid the restraints and told him to go water a nearby tree. 

He wasn't very graceful or quick about it because he had to do everything one-handed, but she didn't offer to help and he didn't ask for any. When he came back, he asked for something to clean himself up with, holding out his arm. "I think I still have Belova's brains under my fingernails."

She found antibacterial soap and a water bottle, which meant putting down the tranquilizer gun, but she was comfortable enough to do that. James was being docile under care in a way that had been one of the earliest things she'd noticed as a difference between the version she'd known in her youth and the one she'd met again. 

She had to wash his hand and forearm for him, massaging in the soap and getting rid of the layers of grime. It was intimate and vulnerable for both of them, but it was also an act of faith, a re-establishment of trust, and more effective than any words could have been. 

James accepted a wet cloth and wiped his own face before letting her dry his arm. He closed his hand around her wrist gently and she stilled but didn't otherwise react. She wasn't scared of him, even though she possibly should have been. She met his gaze and waited. 

"You would have," he asked, although it wasn't really a question. 

"Yes," she confirmed. 

He nodded, then pulled her in and rested his forehead against hers. "Thank you." 

They stood there like that for a long moment before she tilted her head up and kissed him, wanting the comfort for herself as much, if not more, than she wanted to offer it to James. When they broke apart, he was smiling at her. 

"There's cocoa?" 

She punched him in the kidney, not hard enough to hurt, but she was smiling, too. 

As James ate -- he might've had a moment at Diaz's gift of Gruning's handpies, but Natasha pretended not to notice -- she contacted Yondo, who did not hide his relief at the happy resolution and promised to pass word on to Steve. The detail had already relocated to a temporary safehouse in North Dakota and Natasha got directions to proceed directly there. 

Natasha was exhausted on many levels, but while James could have driven if it had been really necessary, she took the wheel. It was gong to be a few hours of driving and they spent the first hour discussing the details of the evacuation and the temporary safe house as Yondo had described them. They would be there for at least twenty-four hours and possibly as long as a week while Fury and Hill tried to find a new location. There were two full Direct Action Teams -- one of them Corrales's -- being flown in to nearby military bases to serve as QRF response units in case the evacuation had been observed and the safehouse compromised. 

But after that, they were mostly just quiet. Natasha suggested James call Steve, but he demurred, saying it would be better to talk in person. 

They arrived at the safehouse after night fell, driving slowly past rifle-bearing agents too bundled up against the cold to identify in the dark. 

Steve and Peggy were asleep in the master bedroom, prompting James to joke about it being a shame that they had a house full of chaperones.

James was received more warmly than warily, but he still told Hassan to hold on to the box of his weapons for the time being, claiming he wouldn't need them in the shower. "I do want my arm back, though," he said. "I feel like a fucking slot machine." 

Natasha put the battery pack back in and followed him into the bathroom so she could help him put it back on after he took his shirt off, but left him alone then, going into the kitchen where there was a big pot of soup on the stove. 

When a half hour had passed and James still hadn't returned, she went to go look for him and found the bathroom door still closed. She knocked -- someone else could have been using it by now -- but the door opened to reveal James sitting on the side of the tub with a towel wrapped around his waist and Steve sitting on the toilet seat cover, leaning on his cane. They both looked up at her with near-matching looks of naughty boys caught at mischief and she had to cover up the way her heart caught by pretending to be annoyed at the both of them for commandeering the bathroom when there was only the one for so many. 

James came into the kitchen five minutes later, clean, dressed, and looking far more relaxed than he had been at any point since he'd woken up. 

"You two are good?" she asked as she handed him a bowl and spoon. 

"Always," he replied with a smile. 

The next few days were largely a blur for Natasha. Without any electronic surveillance and a reduced amount of available agents, everyone except Peggy and Steve and the medical personnel rotated through perimeter guard shifts, interior guard shifts, and sleeping. Natasha and James were on separate schedules because she'd crashed hard once they were fed and fell asleep curled up on a loveseat while James, who'd slept all day, had gone out for perimeter duty. But on the fourth day, Natasha came inside from perimeter duty to a buzz of excitement and people packing up once more. 

Their next location had been decided: they were going to New York. 


	15. Chapter 15

"What the _fuck_ , Tony?"

Natasha did not drop what she was carrying, a near thing and entirely creditable to her training, which had prepared her to face almost anything, and life as an Avenger, which had prepared her to face the rest. Which now, apparently, included a giant koala in the chair where Steve had been when she'd gone upstairs to get his lunch.

Getting Steve and Peggy to Stark Tower had been simple and there'd been no delay; Tony and Pepper had already renovated a floor of the Tower for their use, complete with a gym for physical therapy and quarters for the nursing staff and the small guard detail that was still attached. Natasha had entirely missed the arguments that had resulted in Fury agreeing to the move, but from what she'd gotten from Peggy, it had been extremely ugly and essentially over before it started. "He's a sore loser," Peggy had explained with a shrug. "He knows how to pick his battles and he would have never chosen this one, but he resents that he didn't get a chance to vote."

"Thank you," the koala said in Steve's voice as she put the tray down on the table that had been cleared for his use.

Tony had been working on the image inducer for longer than the two weeks that Steve had been back in New York, although this was the first time Natasha had seen it in action. It was a holographic projector, one that allowed the wearer's actual expressions and gestures to be copied immediately, like motion-capture for the movies. Which meant that the unhappy look on the koala's face was Steve's own.

"Tony, turn it off," Steve said, gesturing with one koala paw -- Natasha idly noticed that koalas had really long claws -- toward the workbench.

"Why?" Tony asked cheerfully. "I think you'll look adorable eating your celery sticks or whatever Marcel's got for you."

Steve reached for his cane, leaning on the back of his chair, and ended up knocking it to the floor with a clatter. "Because I need to see my hands to be able to use them," he said, the frustration and embarrassment giving his voice an edge.

Tony, chastened for having forced Steve to confess his limitations yet again, turned the device off without comment as Steve held on to the workbench with one paw-turned-hand and reached down to pick up the cane with the other. He struggled with it -- keeping his balance, picking up the cane with a hand that, even when he could see it, did not always do what he wanted -- but Natasha made no move to help and hoped Tony knew enough to do the same. He did, waiting for Steve to right himself and then use the cane and the workbench to push himself to standing before standing himself and offering his arm as a second support so Steve could shuffle-step over to the table. Steve had a walker that he used to get around his own apartment and the penthouse, but Tony's workspace was often too cluttered for it and, besides, Dummy kept knocking into it and/or taking it away.

"Where's _my_ lunch?" Tony asked with easy insouciance as they got to the table.

Natasha shot him a dirty look. "Get it yourself," she retorted. "Do I look like your PA?"

"You used to," Tony chirped but, once Steve was holding on to the chair instead of his arm, he went toward the door, ostentatiously staying out of her range even though they both knew that there was nowhere he could get to fast enough to be truly out of her range.

Steve positioned himself and sat down heavily and without much grace. He'd made good progress since his arrival at Stark Tower, but there was still so much to be done before he could live any kind of an independent life. Feeding himself was still a chore, even with silverware with fat rubber grips and foods selected for ease of transport from plate to mouth; getting Steve to eat with other people was still not a sure thing. Tony had more or less browbeat him into sharing meals if they were together, but the rest of them couldn't pull off Tony's particular brand of 'anything to get you to _stop_ ' persistence. And Steve, either from his injuries or the months of being stripped bare of his dignity, was a far less patient and easy-going man than he had been. Especially if he were tired, which he was often because he was pushing himself so hard.

"You eat?" Steve asked as he took the cover off of his plate. It was awkward for him to do and Natasha regretted not doing it for him before he'd gotten up, but she let him struggle with it until it came free, only reaching out to make sure he didn't knock the mug of soup over. It was a spill-proof mug, ostensibly to keep it warm but really because Steve wasn't quite ready for regular mugs and glasses yet. His milk had come in in another lidded mug; Steve deeply hated this particular concession and had had more than one accident with both hot and cold liquids trying to prove that it wasn't still necessary. 

"I'm meeting James," she told him, although that did not stop her from reaching over to pick a carrot off of his plate, sucking on her thumb to get the last of the orange glaze off of it. "He's at 44th Street letting them go through his head again. I think my purpose will be to make sure his lunch isn't entirely liquid and 80-proof."

Fury had pissed off Hill and a few of his other deputies by not suspending James (at the least) after his 'Sputnik moment,' but Fury had held fast and Natasha was grateful for it. Keeping James from anything -- the hunt for Lukin, access to Steve -- would have been disastrous, which was why Fury had refused to do it. It had been a one-time trigger -- Natasha had tested it before they'd turned the ambulance's ignition -- but while James was now free to discuss the Soviet space program, they didn't know what else was hiding in his head and that, Fury agreed, could not be left unexamined. James was more than willing to go along with whatever Fury suggested; he was _insistent_ that anything that could be done to find any other conditioning triggers be tried. Which was why he was now enjoying his fourth session with the deprogrammers; SHIELD had people who were experts in brainwashing and they'd even found one who'd written his dissertation on Soviet methods, so between all of them, hopefully they would give James (and SHIELD) some assurance that this couldn't be done again. Natasha thought it possible that there might be other triggers, but she didn't think any of them would be worse than what had already happened. If there were a way to reactivate the Winter Soldier's personality with a single word, Lukin would have found a way to do it already or he would have sent that word with Belova and her people. That he hadn't meant, to Natasha, that he couldn't. James wanted to believe it, too, but he'd been deeply frightened by what had happened -- he'd barely slept the first week because of the nightmares -- and simple logic, even sound tactical logic, could not ease him.

"How bad is he?" Steve asked, pushing the plate to the side of the tray so he could pull the mug closer. He held it tightly in both hands, looping his left inside the handle, as if he were warming himself, and focused his attention on it as he brought it unsteadily to his lips. "When he's not fronting me."

Natasha smiled at the phrasing -- something Steve had picked up from Tony or Clint, assuredly -- before sobering.

"This week is better than last week," she answered honestly. James saw Steve almost daily, sometimes helping out during PT -- James laughed at how nasty Steve could get in his frustration -- and sometimes visiting in the evening when the two of them would watch a hockey game or a movie together. They were perhaps at the point where they were starting to learn to be around each other as they were now and not as they had been, but that was Peggy's interpretation and nobody else, certainly not Natasha, had the necessary knowledge to agree or contradict. "He's sleeping at least. At night, as opposed to passing out in the second period here."

She wasn't going to tell Steve that James had admitted more than once to finding comfort in knowing that she would do what needed to be done if it should ever come to that, if there were some other trigger that activated the monsters inside of him. James wasn't going to say anything to Steve, either, if not for the reasons he would have had a month ago. James had, she thought, finally gotten used to the idea that Steve was never going to turn away from him because of what he'd done as the Winter Soldier. But with everyone else save Natasha and maybe Clint, he was far less certain and still seemed to be waiting for the inevitable spurning. It was a work in progress, she'd been told, because James's guilt wasn't something that would go away in six months or even six years. Natasha had been surprised but not shocked to find out that Doctor Soo, James's (and Steve's) shrink, wanted to talk to her, too. "You're gonna hitch your wagon to a crazy horse, they're gonna want to know why," had been James's explanation for the appointment request. Natasha rather suspected that instead of wondering about her sanity, the appointment was to help her help James keep his. Which was why she was going to agree.

"Have you made up your shopping list for the art supply place?" Natasha asked, not thinking that Steve would miss the intentionality of the change of subject or that he'd appreciate it because it was not one of his favorites right now. "And more importantly, have you decided what you need from the apartment?"

Steve's occupational therapist was trying to push him into reinvesting himself in his old interests, namely art and food, to improve his manual dexterity and stimulate his mind in new ways. Steve wasn't ready to hold a pencil or a knife, but there were other things he could do -- baking, stirring, reading and following recipes with assistance, sculpting, pottery, drawing with the fat crayons and markers he'd already been given and thus far refused to touch. He'd been willing to go along with almost everything early on, just happy to be able to do anything again, but his standards had risen at a rate incommensurate with his progress and his failures to live up to those too-lofty expectations made him surly and sullen. Now, if he couldn't do it well or without aid, he didn't want to do it at all and, as they all knew, Steve Rogers was stubbornness personified. Which was why everyone had decided to work around him and give him no choice. The immovable object was going to meet the irresistible force of the combined might of Peggy Carter and Pepper Potts (aided and abetted by the others, especially James, the agreed expert at playing dirty pool with Steve). Steve was going to use his art supplies, he was going to get kitchen time, and if he wanted to sit there like a giant recalcitrant toddler and say no all of the time, well, they were prepared to outlast him. Peggy had already spoken to Fury about who to enlist to get Steve into the kitchen and if Natasha hadn't already learned to appreciate the woman's deviousness, she'd have started then and there. But that wasn't Natasha's department yet; the art supplies, however, were.

"I don't want anything," Steve said, a touch of what might have been anger in his voice. Natasha ignored it. "Can't use any of it anyway."

Natasha raised an eyebrow at that because yes, while most of Steve's supplies at the loft were currently beyond his skill set, there were still things he could use and, point of fact, she and James had already gone through everything and packed it. The larger sketchpads, the rolls of butcher paper, the fat pastel sticks, the blocks of modeling clay still in their wrappers, the overshirt Steve wore to work in so that he didn't cover himself in paint or charcoal, the modeling figures that could be posed (invariably obscenely whenever they'd been out when Tony or Clint had been over), cleaning solutions. James knew more about what everything was and how it was used than she did and had made most of the not-obvious calls about whether to put it in the box, but if there was something Steve wanted, he could ask for it. He wouldn't, though.

"I think Marcel is trying to tell me something by giving me the same lunch you got," Tony announced as he approached the table with his own tray. He'd have seen Steve's stormy expression as soon as the elevator doors had opened. "I'm just not sure what it is."

Lunch, according to what Marcel had announced when she'd gone to retrieve Steve's tray, was cream of celeriac soup, a selection of semi-hard cheeses with tarragon crackers, a sandwich of marinated grilled vegetables with fresh mozzarella and aioli on whole grain bread, carrot salad, bakewell tartlets, and a glass of milk. She thought he'd been a little put out that she'd declined her own -- Marcel was probably right in assuming that whatever she ate elsewhere wouldn't be as good (or as healthy), but for today, at least, that was not the point.

"I could come up with some suggestions if you'd like," Natasha offered, since she didn't want to put Steve in a bad mood and then leave him for Tony to deal with.

Tony made an obscene gesture, then dipped a cracker in his soup, which was his way of telling her not to worry about it.

She left them then, apologizing again to Marcel on the way out, There was no point in stopping downstairs as Peggy was out for the day, having fought Fury to a draw about how much protection she needed against another attempt by Lukin to capture her. (Answer: she would not stay sequestered in the Tower, but would accept a detail of Fury's choosing when she did leave.)

"Are there pictures of the koala?" James asked, amused, as they waited for their lunch in Koreatown. He poked dubiously at the contents of one of the banchan bowls with his chopsticks.

"I'm sure there are," Natasha promised, since this was Tony and of course there would be photos, as embarrassing as possible. "And you can eat that, it's not very spicy."

James poked at the cabbage slice again. "It has red on it."

"It's not very red," she pointed out. James wasn't against spicy food on principle, but he'd gotten a few rude surprises the first time she'd taken him out for Korean food and he was reluctant to look before he leaped since then. "It's unfermented kimchi."

He took a piece, was not horrified it, and went back to the octopus pancake.

"They want to drug me," James said once their food had been delivered. He shook the excess thousand island dressing off each piece of iceberg lettuce before eating it. "Some cocktail that will make me... high, I guess. _Fluid_. They can't hypnotize me, but they want me to be loose enough to 'see the eddies of the current of my flow of thoughts.' See if there are any word groupings or whatever that I don't want to go near."

Natasha had been arranging her bibimbap to her satisfaction, but paused. "Did you explain to them why that might not be a good idea?"

James had spent months being a lab rat for Zola, had been shot up with God knew how many drugs that had had any number of effects on him, including making him high as a kite. Which was how Steve had found him, strapped to a table in Italy long ago. He still got nightmares from his time as Zola's and Schmidt's prisoner, more so than from anything he'd done as the Winter Soldier, at least before Wyoming, which had shifted the balance somewhat in favor of waking up after dreaming that he'd killed Steve.

"I told them I wasn't keen on the idea," he said, moving on to the bulgogi portion of his bento box. "But if this is what they need to do to say that I'm clear...."

"They can find something else," Natasha told him firmly. "Seriously, James. They're already pretty sure that you've got no other major triggers. Why put yourself through that? It's not worth the cost for whatever little bit extra assurance it might grant you."

James looked like he was about to laugh it off -- a chance to get high on the job! -- but stopped when he saw her scowl. They both knew he didn't want to get high at all -- he _hated_ losing control -- and he wasn't going to be able to pretend that she didn't know exactly what kind of second-order effects there would be from this experiment.

"I'll tell them I don't want to if there's another option," he said, which Natasha nodded at, but privately made a note to herself to tell Fury because James hadn't said he would tell them 'no' and he was desperate enough for assurance that he could be trusted (because he didn't trust himself) that he'd agree anyway.

They had finished lunch and were lingering over barley tea and orange slices when both of their phones started going off at the same moment. "This is going to be really bad or really awesome," James announced as he fished his phone out of his coat pocket.

Natasha agreed with a grunt as she saw the text message from Hill. "Lukin's broken his house arrest," she read out, mostly to herself because James would have the same thing. She looked up at him. "Fight or flight?"

James took a moment to consider. "Flight," he answered, drinking the last of his barley tea and pulling out his wallet and signaling for the check. "There's nothing to be gained by him fighting Doom, certainly not in Latveria, where Doom's got an army and Lukin's got no stake."

They went back up to 44th Street, as summoned. Neither Fury nor Hill were in residence, but there was a VTC being set up in a conference room as section heads from the relevant analyst desks -- Latveria, HYDRA, Russia -- poured in.

The news was oblique, for the most part. Doom hadn't made any kind of public statement, but SHIELD and other agencies' spies inside Latveria were reporting that there had been a shelter in place order given for the suburb of Doomstadt in which Lukin resided -- which in a place like Latveria meant that everyone was inside and the army and police were out in the streets in force. And a 'trusted foreign security agent' had seen helicopters swarming over the area and the SKL's SWAT teams were all over the estate.

"Where's he going to go?" Hill asked James, the most important man in the room because of his knowledge of both Latveria and Lukin. "He's not exactly going to queue up at a border crossing or go to the airport and there are only so many places to hide in-country."

"He has people in the border guards," James said with a shrug. "But the border'll be shut down tighter than a nun's asshole. He'll go to ground. He's got places to hide and Doom can't keep the country closed forever."

"Actually...." one of the analysts began, but it was mostly in jest. Doom _could_ , but it would cost too much long-term to do so. He would not harm Latveria to get his revenge on Lukin.

James got into a detailed discussion with the analysts and Hill about where in Latveria Lukin could be hiding -- James knew addresses of his bolt-holes -- and whether Doom's people could find him. James thought probably not, especially if he still had people inside the SKL, which he probably did despite Doom having rounded up everyone Lukin had brought in. Fury left the call to attend to other business and Natasha moved to the rear of the room and texted Sonia, who had not yet heard the news and was appreciative of the scoop, promising to pass on anything she heard should Lukin successfully flee the country. Which almost everyone agreed was possible. Doom had created an excellent surveillance state, but its reputation, as Natasha had found out, was greater than its actual capabilities and Lukin had clearly not gotten soft in his retirement.

She repeated the news-sharing with other contacts she thought might be of use and then texted Clint, who was in Yemen (she thought, he hadn't said and she hadn't asked) but due back the day after tomorrow after more than a month out of the country.

 _He'd better not to come to my AO,_ Clint texted back. _I am getting on that plane even if I have to quit my job to do it._

They finished up at 44th Street an hour-plus later and Natasha tagged along with James to Stark Tower. Steve and Tony were still in Tony's workroom when they arrived, although when they walked in, it was Tony and Smurfette. Smurfette looked even more put-upon than the koala had.

"What the hell are you supposed to be?" James asked, gawping. 

Smurfette shrugged. "Something from the '80s," Steve's voice sounded so wrong coming out of a female body. Even a blue one. 

"JARVIS, queue up an episode of _The Smurfs_ for our time-tossed twins," Tony called out, not looking away from where he was typing furiously, text appearing on three different screens in patterns that Natasha couldn't follow. 

"Any preferences, sir?" JARVIS asked. 

"Early seasons, make sure there is at least one singing scene beyond the opening credits. Bonus points for most uses of 'smurf' as a verb." 

"Understood, sir."

This time, Tony turned off the inducer with only Steve holding out a blue hand as a prompt.

"Are you forgetting that the primary purpose is to allow him to get around _unnoticed_?" Natasha asked as James guided Steve toward the couch at the far end of the workroom, where the television was mounted on the wall. Tony was entirely capable of such, especially because Steve _wasn't_ ready to go anywhere and the inducer was essentially a wacky house toy until then.

"What the _fuck_ , Stark?!" James shouted and Natasha turned back toward James and Steve, who was now an ordinary black man (of Steve's proportions), at least from the rear. James was glaring at Tony. "Could you not have waited until he was sitting down so nothing happened when I jumped out of my skin?"

Tony, who knew as well as Natasha did that James's instincts would never have let him startle so violently as to unbalance Steve, grinned unrepentantly.

"You know what he asked for?" Tony asked in a low voice after James returned his attention to settling a once-again-caucasian Steve on the couch. "He wanted to be aged up to what he'd look like if he had lived his normal lifespan."

Natasha followed Tony's pointed finger to the screen -- not visible from the couch -- that indeed showed a picture of Steve as a very old man.

"It's a fair choice considering his handicaps right now, which would be more noticeable in a younger man. He'll pass as a friend of Peggy's if they go out," Natasha offered, although it sounded weak to her own ears. They both knew that that hadn't been Steve's reasoning.

"He doesn't think he's going to get better," Tony said flatly.

"He's frustrated," Natasha agreed. In the background, the theme song for _The Smurfs_ started playing. Natasha had seen it years ago, some arcane and arbitrary rite of passage insisted upon by Clint and agreed with by Coulson, whom she hadn't known well enough at the time to realize he had been pulling her leg.

"He's less than a year from his head nearly exploding like a watermelon," Tony retorted. "He was effectively an infant less than four months ago. He's been one miracle after another since 1943, so why has he decided that the magic box is empty _now_? He got to be Captain America in the first place because he never gave up and now he's doing just that."

Natasha exhaled loudly. "We were warned that there might be personality changes," she reminded him. "And maybe we got lulled into a false sense of security because so much of what did come back is the man we knew. But he still has profound brain damage and maybe this is part of it. Maybe it goes away if he gets another leap forward, maybe it doesn't. Either way..."

Either way, they had to respect it as part of what and who Steve was now. Which did not mean that they had to accept how it manifested.

"Pepper's almost done pushing through the factory proposal for Xi'an," Tony said, which was not a complete change of topic. "It's hard coming up with something that's not obviously awful but won't require Agent Tung to work too hard on it."

Pepper and Peggy's strategy to get Steve prodded into action was to involve Miranda Tung as his occupational therapy buddy. They all thought Steve could do with a new person in his life, especially someone whose continued goodwill he couldn't take for granted. Whatever else had or hadn't been preserved despite his injuries, Steve was still a man of great dignity and courteousness and kindness. He would not, they all presumed, be as sullen and stubborn around Miranda as he was around the rest of them. He might get angry at them when she wasn't around and accuse them of showing off his incapacity, but he would not take it out on her. Natasha thought it a brilliant piece of maneuvering, worthy of two women who were masters of the art. 

But while everyone agreed that Miranda was perfect for the job, the fact remained that they had to provide a workable cover story for why a young SHIELD agent would suddenly be spending so much time at Stark Tower. There'd been thought of just pretending she'd quit her job to work for Stark Industries, but that had been dismissed as too disruptive to Miranda's life; this wasn't a full-time or long-term job and it would be unfair to her. The obvious (to Pepper) solution had been to request a SHIELD consultant for a project for which Miranda would be the most obvious candidate to be assigned; SHIELD offered up the service to companies or individuals that dealt with anything that could be considered security risks or otherwise sensitive -- intelligence, technology, any innovation that put them at risk of falling prey to hostile state or non-state actors. Stark Industries used them all of the time, so it was just a matter of coming up with a project that fit Miranda's expertise. Hence starting a production line in Shaanxi province, which would require a security and efficiency survey from SHIELD. 

"It'll be worth it," Natasha said, since there wasn't much else to say. She hadn't been involved in the project save for a quick security assessment of Miranda, which just confirmed that she was still living a very careful life more than three years after her time as a HYDRA mole had ended. Natasha had been a little disappointed at how little security SHIELD was still providing for the former Operative Baker, especially now with HYDRA becoming more of a threat with Lukin's takeover. Miranda had a SHIELD-provided home security system for her apartment and an emergency beacon she was supposed to keep on her person at all times, but after that, she was on her own. Fury admitted that there had been talk of supplementing protective efforts for all three surviving former HYDRA moles, but thus far it was all talk. If Miranda was going to be let in to the secret about Steve, however, there would have to be additional steps taken and Fury had agreed. "Is there a timetable?"

At the other end of the workroom, Dummy had rolled over to the couch and James was shooing him away. Dummy loved James, as much as he was capable of such a thing, because of all of the time James had spent in the workroom back when Tony had been playing with his old arm and designing him a new one. Tony would joke that Dummy saw him as a long-lost cousin because of the metal arm, which might not have been that far off the mark, apparently, but James was often frustrated by the attention because Dummy did not have the processing power to be low-key or subtle in his affection. Steve thought it absolutely hilarious, though, and would encourage it, especially if it meant that Dummy would leave his cane alone. 

"Inside a month, probably," Tony replied, typing away again. "It's got to work itself through our system and then through SHIELD's bureaucracy. No expediting or arm-twisting allowed." 

Natasha ended up leaving James with Steve so she could go home and start replying to all of the emails and texts from contacts eager to know what was going on in Latveria. Which for the next week was essentially "nothing." Lukin was at large, his family was still in their home and his children still going to school -- Doom was true to his word and did not use them against Lukin -- and Latveria was once again open for business. SHIELD wasn't the only agency watching everything closely, nor were the security services the only entities, since Lukin's disappearance had sparked rumors of what would become of Kronas and the stock markets were impacted by every guess. 

SHIELD, of course, was monitoring HYDRA both in connection to Lukin and on its own, hoping to get an inkling of what might happen that way. Natasha paid attention as best she could, but she was periodically distracted by work -- HYDRA was not the only terrorist fish in the sea -- and occasionally by her personal life, which was a novelty as far as that went and not entirely a pleasant one. She and James had a fight after she found out that he _hadn't_ told the deprogrammers no and had allowed them to drug him, something she only discovered after being woken up in the middle of the night by James screaming and then running to the bathroom to throw up. Once he'd confessed, she'd gotten dressed and left him right then and there, refusing to take his calls or reply to his texts. She was angry at herself for not getting around to telling Fury when she'd first found out about the idea, but she was more angry at James because her care of him as friend and lover should not need to extend to such obvious and unnecessary attempts at self-sabotage. (Or maybe it did; she'd find out when she finally got around to making that appointment with Soo.) She did tell Fury then, however, and he shut down the assessment right away, proclaiming James free of triggers and officially reprimanding the team for even considering pharmaceutical aids for a subject with a documented history of medical torture and a probably impaired ability to consent. 

They couldn't help but run into each other -- not with Lukin still on the loose and neither of them would put Steve between them -- and they were civil but cool and distant. Steve understood why she was furious -- _he_ was furious -- but tried to play peacemaker nonetheless. Natasha told him he didn't have a leg to stand on here because everything he was making allowances for for James was something he was expecting all of them to make for him. "Of course you're going to say him pushing too hard is natural," she told him. "He's being an idiot in all of the ways you are being an idiot."

In the end, Clint was the one to put a stop to everything by forcing Natasha to make the appointment with Soo and then, unbeknownst to her, giving James his copy of Natasha's keys, which meant she came home from Stockholm to find James sitting on the couch wearing an actual dunce cap ("Steve and I made it during his OT session") with a bouquet of calla lilies in a vase and takeout from her favorite Thai place in the kitchen. 

"Only because of the cap," Natasha told him.

Three days later, Sonia texted her with a tip that had her kicking James out of bed for a better reason than his idiocy. "Lukin's in Zagreb," she said, wriggling free of an embrace that had only just turned amorous. James still had his water bottle in his hand, which was why she had even looked at her phone. "I have to call it in."

Lukin was doing something in town, although nobody could figure out what or where. He kept a low profile for the next four days, low enough that Fury kept asking if they were sure he hadn't snuck out of town. They were, but that was about all they were sure of. 

"Isn't that a little risky?" Hill asked James during a brief meeting that had mostly been about other things, including Miranda Tung's upcoming secondment to Stark Industries. "I know you told us that the Latverians watch Belgrade, but Zagreb's got to be one of the next most logical places and Lukin's got to know that Doom will have people there and in Romania and Hungary. If you can get to Croatia, why not go to Austria or somewhere else? Disappear for real?"

"The Croatians aren't going to let Doom do anything," James countered. "He can arm-twist the Serbians because they don't have a lot of friends, but the Croats do, at least comparatively. Nobody's really going to turn him in to the Latverians, not in that part of the world and not if he's running HYDRA for most of Europe. It's as good a place as any to do business."

On the fifth day, however, Lukin was on the move. He'd been seen boarding a private jet with an entourage and SHIELD had the photos. James could identify all but two of the entourage as key members of Lukin's inner circle, men who had the power to give orders to people like the Winter Soldier. SHIELD was working on facial rec for the other two and sending the pictures to other agencies hoping for a lead. They didn't have live footage, just the photographs taken from a distance. They had a tail number, however, and the flight plan had been entered into the logs with the air traffic controllers with a destination of Alexandria.

Clint was off in the next room having loud conversations in Arabic with his contacts there, asking around about Lukin's past visits and trying to get someone to wait for the plane and follow Lukin when he disembarked. ("There's a CIA station, make them work for a change." "My guys are better and cost less. These guys work for cash; the CIA's gonna want shit we actually care about.") But Natasha didn't have much to do but watch and wait and pass on tidbits to Sonia; Egypt was out of her AO and her contacts in the former Yugoslav republics were mostly arms dealers, nobody who could give her anything right now. Sonia would get back to her, Natasha was sure, but right now, there was nothing. 

"The plane might not even be going to Egypt," one of the analysts pointed out. 

"I sure as fuck hope it is," Clint said, coming back into the room. "I just promised ten thousand dollars to people to watch him." 

The flight from Zagreb to Alexandria would be short enough for them to wait around, although not all in the same place. Fury went to his office, Hill (still aboard the Helicarrier) terminated the VTC, and the analysts went back to their departments to work with what they had and try to come up with more for when they reconvened. Natasha and James followed Clint down to the commissary for coffee. 

They were still working on their snacks -- Clint and James were arguing about M&M colors -- when one of the probationary agents assigned to Fury's office came tearing in, nearly causing a major accident when she ducked under someone's full tray as she ran by. 

"Director Fury says to get your asses back to the conference room now," Probationary Agent Gonzales announced. "I was instructed to quote him directly."

Gonzales sprinted off after being assured that agents off probation didn't actually have to run to meetings, even with Fury. 

"You're not going to make fun of me if I say she makes me feel old, right?" James asked as he crumpled up his napkin. 

"She makes me feel old and I'm sixty years younger than you," Clint assured. 

The conference room was crowded and noisy when they arrived, but Fury was not there. 

"Lukin's plane went down in Macedonia," Richman, one of the HYDRA task force people told them. "Fireball and everything." 

Natasha stopped walking in shock, causing Clint to stumble into her. 

"Bomb or accident?" she asked, but Richman shrugged and Natasha looked around to see if any of the screens were showing footage or stills or news reports. There didn't seem to be. 

"Bomb," James decided as they moved toward the table so that they could claim seats. "The question is who put it there."

Which was the subject of a general debate -- there were powerful arguments for both Putin and Doom -- until Fury swept into the room and took his seat at the head of the table. 

"The Macedonians have agreed to accept a team of American specialists to assist with the crash investigation," he announced as his aide produced a tablet and put it down in front of him. "And by 'assist' I mean 'run.' They want less than nothing to do with Lukin, Doom, Putin, or any possible HYDRA connection. SHIELD will be present officially in a secondary capacity in support of the NTSB, but we are going to be doing more than helping look for the black box. In the meanwhile, I want workups on how this changes everything and anything."

James raised his hand. "Are we including the option that Lukin did this himself?" 

That caused a reaction around the table, mostly disbelief. 

"Suicided?" Warren, one of the Latveria hands asked skeptically. "That seem at all like the guy you worked for?" 

James frowned at her. "The guy I worked for is perfectly capable of faking his own death to get out of sight and set himself up as the Supreme HYDRA where nobody can find him. So, yeah, it does seem like him."

There was a murmur around the table as everyone considered the implications of what James had said. Natasha hid her surprise, but she could admit to herself that she hadn't considered 'ruse' to be a likely option. Although on second thought, none of their evidence thus far ruled it out. "Where did we get the pictures of Lukin getting on the plane from?" she asked loudly enough to be heard. 

"Local agent, unaffiliated," was the answer after some checking. 

"So they could have been staged," Fury agreed grimly. "The plane went down over land, so there will be human remains to recover. If none of them are Lukin's, then we'll have an answer. And if some of them are, then I want to know who splattered him all over the ground."

There was more discussion, but when the analysts left, James, Clint, and Natasha stayed behind. 

"Are we going to Macedonia?" Natasha asked. 

"Not unless you want to take vacation," Fury replied. "There's nothing you can do there. Once we get some forensic evidence that points us in any direction, I'll turn you loose." 

"It's going to take a while," Clint pointed out. 

Natasha hadn't caught any details, but a plane exploding at cruising altitude would have a debris radius measured in kilometers and it could be weeks before they were able to prove that Lukin was aboard or get any evidence that indicated either the Russians or Latverians had planted a bomb. 

Fury raised his eyebrow. "You getting itchy to travel, Barton? It can be arranged."

Clint, who'd been out of the country a lot more than he'd been in over the past year and usually to unpleasant places, frowned. "Don't you joke about that."

There was a note of... not desperation, but an edge that Natasha was sure Fury had caught. Clint was really starting to get worn down by his mission workload, something he'd only admit under pressure, and even then he'd mostly joke about forgetting that he wasn't twenty-five anymore. He would fight any official plan to lighten his schedule, however, and Natasha didn't know Zolghadr, Clint's current handler, well enough to know if he realized how worn Clint was. Natasha's own handler, a deceptively mousy-looking man named Klein who'd once gotten himself demoted for telling Fury to go fuck himself in front of a crowd, generally let her decide how burned out she was, although he also was better about managing the part of her schedule that he controlled better than Clint's handlers did, which was why she was still with the guy Coulson had (unbeknownst to her) chosen for her while Clint had gone through a half-dozen since then. 

"Get out of here," Fury said with a sigh. "See if one of you can't get Peggy Carter to cancel her trip down to Philadelphia." 

James turned toward the door, entirely to hide his inability to keep the smirk off his face. He had volunteered to drive Peggy himself and there'd been talk of possibly bringing Steve along to test the inducer, although that hadn't gotten very far and didn't seem very likely. 

"Go," Fury ordered, displeased at the lack of willingness to help. "Before I start throwing darts at the world map and issuing plane tickets."

The global reaction to Lukin's death was varied. Nobody else was really considering that it might have been faked, which meant nothing in terms of SHIELD's investigation. Both Putin and Doom were forced to put out statements proclaiming their nation's innocence, which not everyone believed because if there were a more perfect method of ridding themselves of the Lukin problem, nobody could come up with it. The stock markets hiccuped for a couple of days until Latveria made a statement about what would become of Kronas Industries now that their case against Lukin was mooted. (Answer: it would be forfeited to the Latverian state as the sole punitive measure in light of the overwhelming evidence of Lukin's betrayal. All of Lukin's other assets would be restored to his widow and children.) Natasha was able to follow the progress of the investigation in Macedonia, supplemented by what she was getting from Sonia, but about all anyone knew at this point was that it had indeed been a bomb and not any kind of accident. The debris radius was large and much of what had been found had been burned beyond recognition by the massive fireball that had engulfed the plane; not all of the human remains contained enough viable material to sample for DNA testing. 

More locally, Peggy went to Philadelphia without Steve, who had started walking around with just a quad-footed cane except when he was really tired, and brought back a James newly enthralled by Tastykakes. The inducer was in its final testing phase according to Tony, which involved taking it into the shower, although Natasha wanted absolutely no details from that because Pepper had been the guinea pig and the testing notes were probably highly redacted. And SHIELD had finally gotten around to assigning Stark Industries' request for a consultant to Agent Tung of the China Desk, so the next phase of that operation could proceed as well, which meant that they had to decide whether or not to tell Steve in advance. James and Tony were for springing it on him as a surprise, Peggy and Pepper were for giving him time to prepare, Natasha had no opinion, and Clint's only comment had been to crack that Steve couldn't move fast enough to make storming off in protest a viable option, so it probably didn't matter. They ended up telling him because Pepper and Peggy were supposed to be the emotionally mature ones and they'd decided that one surprise -- Miranda's -- would be enough. Steve took the news badly and got yelled at by several people including Natasha, whose new insights courtesy of a surprisingly productive discussion with Doctor Soo allowed her to keep her arguments constructive. Mostly. By the time the day came, Steve had at least stopped being pissy about it. He might have even started to look forward to it, but nobody was going to press him on it because that would have been gloating. 

The big meeting was a lunch at the penthouse, with Pepper bringing Miranda as a presumed working meal for the two of them to discuss the project in Xi'an. Natasha and James were nearly late because they'd spent the night in Brooklyn and a signal problem at the Atlantic Avenue subway station had had cascading effects that had left them wondering if it would be faster to walk. Clint was fiddling with the Starkphone Tony was giving Miranda when they arrived, looking worryingly pleased with himself. Peggy was looking more straightforwardly pleased with herself when Natasha joined her on the couch. 

"You look like you're girding for battle before a dance at St. Anne's," James teased Steve, who was not so much waiting by the entry foyer as interrupted en route back from the bathroom. "Are you sure you don't want to go stand near a wall so you can pretend you're invisible?" 

Steve paused to stabilize his footing so he could properly glare at James, who'd moved quickly to get out of range, which was why he was still there when the elevator doors chimed. The foyer wasn't completely visible from the couches, certainly not with everyone seated, so Natasha could only hear Pepper and Miranda making small talk until she stood up, helping Peggy to stand, too. 

Miranda's reaction to seeing Steve was to freeze and stare.

"Hi," Steve said softly. "I'm sorry." 

Miranda shook herself out of her spell with a jolt, then couldn't decide whether to curse or cry, so she did both, although it was an assumption on Natasha's part for the former because she had no Mandarin. 

"JARVIS, is Miss Tung being as foul-mouthed as I think she is?" Tony asked, emerging from the kitchen area from where he'd been bothering Marcel. 

"Indeed, sir," Jarvis confirmed as Steve took a careful step toward Miranda and she moved into his outstretched arms with a sob. Pepper gracefully edged around them and came into the living room with very bright eyes but an even more satisfied expression. Tony put his arm around her and kissed her forehead. 

It was only after Miranda collected herself and started reaching into her purse for tissues that she even noticed that the living room was full of people and she smiled in embarrassment. 

"Don't worry," Steve told her before she could say anything. "They've all done worse."

They made their way to the couches and Peggy went over to Miranda as Steve got himself settled. "I'm very glad to finally meet you," she told Miranda, holding out her hand to shake. "I have heard a lot about you." 

Miranda, still clearly overwhelmed, could only smile tightly as she accepted Peggy's hand. 

"Okay, now that we've gotten the drama out of the way," Tony began loudly, drawing everyone's attention to him as he gently disengaged from Pepper, who, Natasha suspected, went off to go dry her tears in private. "Let's get to the comedy." 

Miranda sat down between Clint and Steve as Tony gave an intentionally lighthearted overview of the true story of what had happened since last Memorial Day before explaining why Miranda was here and what they hoped she could accomplish as Steve's occupational therapy partner. "This is, by the way, a mission that you are free to turn down," he warned. "God knows, we've all wanted to at some point."

Miranda looked over at Steve, who shrugged, not denying anything. "I'm difficult."

Pepper had returned by the time Tony got a good laugh out of the group by pointing out that the Avengers were a team of many abilities, but cooking was not really one of them and frustrating Steve with their ineptness would be counterproductive. "He gets frustrated enough as it is," Tony said, giving Steve a knowing look before returning his attention to Miranda. "Which means that you really don't have to put up with him when he does. Those muscles are very well exercised." 

Steve frowned. 

"I appreciate the effort being made to scare me," Miranda said. "But I am pretty sure that no matter what y'all have to say here, he--" she pointed to Steve on her right with her thumb, "--will be a lot less terrifying than the last time SHIELD asked me to play secret squirrel."

The last time, Natasha had been the one giving Miranda the recruitment talk and it had been for a very different sort of mission. But also a very different Miranda. Back then she'd been something of an innocent, largely oblivious to HYDRA's existence and focused, as might be expected for someone of her age and circumstance, on her own life. She'd been a fairly recent college graduate with loans to her name and enough trouble trying to find a job that would let her pay them off that she'd started to apply for ones in China despite being thoroughly Americanized after being raised in North Carolina from childhood. She'd come to SHIELD's attention that way and it had largely been an accident that Natasha had been the one sent to ask her if she'd be willing to risk her life for her adopted country. More than risk her life, although downplaying that had been part of the sell -- although not so much as to pretend that there weren't many possible and even probable ways that things could go catastrophically, which Clint had accused Natasha of doing after the fact. They'd fought about the recruitment after Clint and Steve had rescued Miranda; Natasha hadn't gone on that mission and Clint had gotten pissed at her for that, too, despite them both knowing that that wasn't really her forte the way it was his and Steve's. In Clint's mind, Natasha had gotten Miranda into that mess and she should have made herself available to get her out of it regardless of how valuable an asset she'd turned out to be. And Miranda had been a brilliant asset, getting in deeper and staying longer than any of the other moles SHIELD had sent in and producing the most useful and actionable intelligence both while she was under and with what she'd had the presence of mind to take with her when she'd fled. Natasha had gotten reflected glory from that, too, which had only angered Clint more. 

"It may not be less scary by much," Clint warned her, all seriousness. "We are not, by and large, the safest people to be around and that includes Peggy over there." 

Miranda gave him a rueful smile. " _I_ am not the safest person to be around," she reminded him. "HYDRA, whoever's in charge, still has a bounty on my head. I got the counter-surveillance lessons when they first let me move into my own place, but they've also been scaling back my protection with every year I go undetected. Or as my usefulness as a HYDRA expert gets less and less, I'm not sure. But the point is, I'm probably more of a risk to Steve than he is to me." 

Next to Natasha, James shifted uncomfortably. Not because he thought Miranda was a risk -- he'd been very impressed with her once he'd found out she was more than just a random junior agent Steve had befriended -- but because the words struck home, especially after how Wyoming had ended. 

"You'll be getting some of that protection back," Natasha assured. "And we're all in agreement that the reward outweighs any risk."

Miranda looked both embarrassed and relieved and embarrassed for being relieved. During that long-ago recruitment, Natasha and Miranda had never discussed the 'after' part, what would become of her if she survived the mission. Not because the odds were so low, but because the odds existed and bringing it up would have been putting the cart before the horse -- they had no idea what would be good or necessary after the mission was completed, what the world would look like, what Miranda would want. But they'd spoken during Miranda's debriefing period when she'd been living in protective custody aboard the Helicarrier while they waited to see how hard HYDRA was going to try to find her and punish her for her betrayal. Miranda admitted to having been naive about how this would change her and Natasha, as a kind of apology, had admitted that she'd intentionally not brought it up. "I wouldn't have believed you if you had," Miranda had replied. "And you wouldn't have been able to predict what was going to happen anyway." It was a gracious thing to say and Natasha took it as a sign of maturity, and it had been, but it was only much later on, from Steve, that Natasha had learned how much fear Miranda had been living with long after she'd returned. "She didn't want to ask you how to handle it," Steve had told her. "She doesn't think you are capable of being scared." Natasha didn't know if Miranda was less scared now or more able to handle it or neither. 

"The reward, of course, is that it means Steve will have to be on his best behavior when you're here and did we mention that he's occasionally not fun to be around?" Tony asked with the sort of timing that Natasha never quite got over being surprised that he possessed. "You're going to be our grenade blanket."

Miranda, grateful for the emotional reprieve, made a show of turning to Steve. "Now what exactly are you getting up to these days that the Avengers are all so eager to dump you on a junior analyst?" 

"Just wait until he starts throwing things," James offered, his first words since Miranda had arrived; he'd greeted her with an awkward nod. "Thankfully, his aim's still crap and he's not coordinated enough to get the shield off the wall."

"Also, he pouts," Peggy added gleefully. 

"Guys, please?" Steve asked plaintively, rubbing at his face with one hand. "A fig leaf of dignity, maybe?"

"You've dug your own hole there," Peggy told him without pity. 

"Speaking of the junior analyst part," Pepper began over the laughter that resulted. "Your actual reason for daily arrivals at Stark Industries..."

Miranda suddenly looked worried. "That was a pretext, right? Please tell me that was a pretext, Ms. Potts, because it's a terrible idea and everyone at the China Desk knew it was a terrible idea. We were all wondering who was going to draw the short straw to have to tell you. I got sympathy cookies when it turned out to be me." 

Everyone laughed. "It's a pretext," Pepper assured. "You'll still need to generate the survey to explain why, but my official obduracy will be for show to extend your stay."

"Oh, thank goodness," Miranda exhaled. 

Marcel announced lunch was ready.

"Don't you dare decide that you're not hungry," Peggy warned Steve before he could even consider trying to get out of eating in front of Miranda. He was doing better there, but more in the sense that he was getting things to his mouth on the first try more often -- he still needed his special flatware and mugs. 

James offered a hand to Peggy before Natasha could, smoothly looping their arms once she was up so that they looked like they were strolling in a park instead of going to the dining table. "Showoff," Natasha told him and he smiled at her. 

Miranda helped Steve stand, although the two nearly toppled back on to the couch because of the mass disparity and Steve's failure to plant his feet well. They both started laughing about it, which was already a change because Steve had been thrown into a sulk by lesser mistakes on his part. 

"Oh!" Clint exclaimed, digging in to his back pocket and coming up with the Starkphone he'd been fooling with earlier. "Forgot about this." 

He held it out to Miranda, who took it warily. "Yes, your phone is very warm?" 

Tony dashed back into the living room -- Pepper calling after him from the table -- and made a grab for it. "Gimme," he instructed and Miranda did. "And your old phone."

"Old phone?" Miranda was now thoroughly confused. 

Natasha rolled her eyes. "What they are trying to tell you is that you are being given a new, more secure phone," she explained. "Tony would like to transfer your contacts and data, but he's not very good at using his words."

"And he's not the one with brain damage," Steve added, having gotten himself ready to walk. "So he says."

Tony flipped Steve the bird with the hand he wasn't using to scroll through the screens on the Starkphone. Clint had been entering their numbers into the phone so Miranda would have emergency contacts, not just for when she was with Steve, but for her own use in the future. "Bunsen Honeydew, Crazy Harry, Gonzo, Miss Piggy... You are either clever or suicidal, depending on what kind of a mood Barnes is in." 

James was most of the way out of the room, but turned his head to look back. Natasha waved him on with an 'I'll explain later' gesture. 

"Natasha is obviously Piggy," Tony said and Natasha shot Clint a dirty look, but he held up his hands. 

"Hey, you saw _The Great Muppet Caper_ ," he protested. "Don't tell me you don't think Miss Piggy is awesome." 

Miranda nodded agreement. "Miss Piggy is awesome." 

"I'm going to guess that I'm Honeydew," Tony continued, finally looking up from the phone. "Although I think I'm going to change that to Doctor Strangepork because he's not only less accident-prone, but also an engineer. Gonzo is probably you, which is actually not a bad choice. And Barnes totally is Crazy Harry, isn't he, although he's been remarkably restrained with the pyrotechnics since he's been back." 

Natasha didn't know which one Crazy Harry was, so she wasn't sure how offended on James's behalf she should be, if at all. 

"Is there a cheat sheet for this or is it just 'if in trouble, call a Muppet?'" Miranda asked, smiling. 

Lunch was a surprisingly lighthearted affair with most of the discussion about what Steve and Miranda could get up to in Steve's kitchen and, more importantly, when everyone could come over to try the results. There was a probably too-involved discussion about knives and Pepper had to get Tony to repeat out loud, in front of witnesses, that there would be no spit-roasting of whole pigs on any levels of the balcony deck after Miranda had pointed out that while yes, she prepared a lot of Chinese food, she was also a Southern girl and thought things like grits or pimiento cheese would be easy for Steve to make, which in turn had sparked a discussion of North Carolina's competing barbecue traditions. Which had necessitated Pepper's probably valid concerns about Tony. 

There was also a bit of shop talk, especially because Miranda admitted to keeping up with all of the HYDRA files her clearance allowed her access to -- and her SCI clearance for HYDRA files was very high because Operative Baker still needed it, even if the rest of Agent Tung's clearances were more in line with a junior member of the China Desk. "The more I know, the more they need me, the less likely they ask for the emergency beacon back," she'd explained with a casual shrug that fooled no one. "Also, I sleep better when I know how close they are to coming to get me." 

Whatever her motives, Miranda was a sharp reader and a shrewd analyst -- she'd gotten glowing evaluations at the China Desk despite not even wanting the job when she'd first been brought back -- and she could contribute to the discussion without feeling too embarrassed about debating HYDRA with most of the Avengers. 

"I like her," James said on the way down in the elevator after lunch. Both of them had appointments elsewhere in the afternoon. "But SHIELD didn't do much for her with the shell shock, did they?" 

Natasha gave him a look that clearly communicated just how much the pot was calling the kettle black on that score. James had the decency to acknowledge it. "I know, it's just... her not-broken moments seem a lot longer and a lot stronger than mine." 

Natasha sighed and kissed him on the cheek. "Let's see where you are at the three year mark, okay?" 

Life and work settled down a bit for the next few weeks. Clint went off to Nebraska on leave, Steve picked up both wooden spoons and crayons (Peggy appointed herself both official taster and official photographer), and Natasha spent a week on Ibiza helping crack a designer drug ring. She came home sunburned and James utterly refused to show the slightest sympathy because New York had gotten a late and heavy snowstorm while she'd been away. 

The news from Macedonia remained ambiguous because they'd found a gold icon pendant that James had positively identified as Lukin's, but the bones it had been found with had been too badly destroyed to get a sufficient sample. The remains thus far had all been of males and the tests that could be performed had all pointed to them being Eastern Europeans who'd spent significant time inside the Soviet Union, but while they would be able to say if any of them were Lukin (thus far, they weren't), they did not have anything to use as comparisons for the other men in his entourage. It was starting to look like they might never know whether Lukin and his people had died on the plane or the passengers had just been decoys, which frustrated them all. 

As spring made its first concerted efforts to stick around and SHIELD fielded its first inquiries about what it was going to do to mark the anniversary of Captain America's death, Fury started making noises about shifting resources away from that project and on to other things. Especially because HYDRA hadn't exactly flourished as if they still had a steady hand on their tiller, which spoke against Lukin still being alive and in charge. They weren't doing much of anything these days, or at least no more than they had done, which still left plenty of places to raid for the Direct Action Service and the odd political tract and more frequent Youtube and social media polemicizing. They were still recruiting, especially among the third world, but they weren't blowing anything to strike a blow against the old world order or whatever their language was this month. 

Which was why Natasha was surprised and confused to be called at four in the morning to come in to 44th Street to watch a new HYDRA video, albeit one not meant for public consumption. "An internal memo, more or less," had been the explanation for the summons. 

When she arrived, Hill was making coffee from Fury's private stash and James was sitting at the table with the kind of bleary alertness that made her think he hadn't gotten any sleep before his phone had rung. Clint, on the other hand, had very clearly been woken up because his hair was sticking out at all angles and he was close to going back to sleep in his chair. A couple of the HYDRA task force leaders were there, all with the same 'I'm not sure if I'm even wearing matching socks' look that Natasha probably wore. 

Fury was the last to show, dressed casually in jeans and a long-sleeve t-shirt. "Play the video," he told the probie waiting at the laptop. 

It took exactly three seconds -- the length of time for the HYDRA splash screen to display and then disappear -- before it became obvious why they'd been called in. 

"Jesus fucking _Christ_ ," James spluttered, nearly knocking over his chair as he stood up. Natasha, sitting next to him, was too stunned to get out of the way. 

James looked at Fury, pointing angrily at the screen. "What the _hell_ is that?" 

On the screen, the Red Skull calmly continued speaking to the camera. 


	16. Chapter 16

"We've already called the Israelis," Hill said as the video of the Red Skull played on. "Schmidt is in his cell." 

Natasha finally unfroze from her shock and retrieved the chair James had sent careening into her and then into the wall. James was still standing, eyes glued to the screen, and didn't notice. "Is it still Schmidt?" 

Hill made a face. "It still seems to be, as far as they can tell. Matthias Kuersteiner is hardly likely to lie for the man whose held him hostage for more than fifty years." 

Kuersteiner was the man whose body and identity Schmidt had stolen in the 1960s when he'd agreed to vacate the body of young Andreas von Strucker, where he'd wound up after using the Tesseract against Steve. There had been no way to save Kuersteiner from continuing to share Schmidt's fate -- even if they had a way to separate out the two consciousnesses, which they did not, they had nowhere to put the one they removed. All they could do was apologize, which was a very meager act indeed, and quietly close his missing person file, giving his remaining family the closure they'd been lacking. 

James and Clint spoke almost at once. "I would."

The two of them shared a look that Natasha saw because she was physically between them, but one she could not understand in its entirety and prayed she never would. She'd been lied to during her childhood in Department X's care, made to believe things about herself that weren't true, but she'd never had to experience what James and Clint had, to be prisoners in their own bodies, forced to betray their friends and their principles and utterly helpless to do anything about it. 

"If Schmidt found a way to get out of his head," James said, some invisible conversation having made him the spokesman of the pair, "if he promised to leave Kuersteiner alone, then Kuersteiner would do anything to make that happen. He'd sit in that prison cell and rot, pretending to be Schmidt, for the rest of his life if his silence meant he got to do it alone." 

One of the analysts looked like they might want to question the point and Natasha prayed he kept his mouth shut. But then Fury spoke and the problem was solved. 

"Barton, I want you on a flight to Israel today," he said. "Make sure it's Schmidt and then see if he'll tell you who is borrowing his identity. My guess is that while he wouldn't mind if one of his old lieutenants took up the reins of power, he's going to mind a lot if they do so wearing his old face."

Natasha touched James's hand to draw his attention and gesture that he sit down again. He did, but his eyes remained on the screen. Once upon a time, Natasha knew, while Zola had been James's primary torturer, Johann Schmidt had been there at the prison in Italy, too, trying out his own ideas on how to improve his version of Erskine's formula on prisoners like James. And later on, he'd been the one to claim the amnesiac James for his own, giving him an arm but not a name and turning him into a HYDRA weapon before the Russians had ever met him. Everyone thought Steve had the most history with Schmidt and maybe, in terms of years and prestige, he did, but James's was more brutal by far. 

"We are running the audio through voice recognition," Hill began, "but if we turn up the volume--" she broke off while the probie at the laptop did just that, "--you'll notice that there are masking filters applied. I'm assured that we can reverse that, but until then we're using speech patterns as well as seeing what we can get for a map of the real face underneath. That mask is pretty form-fitting, but a minor prosthesis or filler in the right spot and we'll never get an ID through facial rec."

Natasha had done work on the Red Skull and HYDRA, especially after Steve's body had been found in the ice -- it had been natural to wonder if the Red Skull could have survived as well, especially because they hadn't known, until Steve told them, that Johann Schmidt had disappeared from the plane before the crash. The Red Skull talking on the screen looked, to Natasha's admittedly novice eyes, like the real thing. James had actually seen it up close, however, and judging by how rattled he was, the resemblance was probably very close indeed.

"We're including Lukin in this?" Zubov, one of the analysts from the Russia Desk, asked. 

"We are," Hill agreed. "Mister Barnes, do you have much experience listening to Lukin speak English?" 

James didn't quite startle, but his attention clearly hadn't been fully -- or even mostly -- on the conversation around him. "No," he said. "He spoke Russian to me and Latverian to his staff. Sometimes he spoke English on the phone, but I don't remember it being notable and I didn't pay much attention when he did."

"We have experts on Lukin," Zubov assured. Natasha had worked with him on several occasions and thought him to be the most useful of the Russia Desk section heads. "We'll have them sit through the video."

"Good," Hill replied, then turned to the head of the HYDRA task force. "Sanchez, you'll have your people look it over as well, see if anyone thinks he looks familiar."

There was more, but it didn't involve action for either Natasha or James, just requirements that they be available to answer questions, him more than her, and a vague warning that one or both of them might be sent abroad to chase down leads. Natasha waited until the analysts and aides left and it was just her and James and Clint with Fury and Hill because there would be more to discuss that other ears should not be allowed to hear.

"You should double whatever you're doing for Steve and Peggy's protection," James said as soon as the door was closed. It wasn't a suggestion and James's tone and his posture, even while sitting, made it very clear that he was in no mood to be disagreed with. "Whoever that is, Lukin or not, he isn't going to stop with just the mask."

There was a chance that whoever was underneath the mask was just using it as a shorthand for respectability within the HYDRA ranks, a callback to their first and most successful leader meant to unify and not as any kind of symbolism or return to first principles. But that was unlikely. Whoever was under that mask was going to use whatever they could to strengthen their connection to the first Red Skull and that, for better or for worse, revolved around Captain America and the people he'd left behind. If it were Lukin under the mask, that would include James, but if it weren't, then Peggy Carter was alone at the top of the list.

"We'll double the detail and have a sit-down with Stark about building security," Fury agreed readily, but James didn't relax at all. Natasha suspected he wouldn't until Steve and Peggy were in front of him, safe, and then he'd only relax into the comfort of guard duty. "You may need to talk to Ms. Carter yourself about her appointment book because she isn't too inclined to do what I tell her to do."

It was after dawn by the time Natasha and James got outside, close enough to the start of the civilian workday that the streets were already crowded and there were long lines for the coffee carts.

"Come on," Natasha exhorted, pulling on his arm so that he'd follow her west, toward the subway that would take them to her place, rather than east and the short walk to Stark Tower. "Steve's not even up yet and you haven't been to bed. It'll keep for a few hours."

Steve was probably up and waiting impatiently for his physical therapist to show up so he could get into the pool for his morning session, but James really needed to sleep for a little while.

James looked like he was going to argue with her, but then he gave in and let her drag him toward Broadway. When they got back to her apartment, she shooed him toward the bedroom but went to her laptop herself, writing a couple of quick emails to Sonia and a few other contacts about whether they'd heard anything about a new Red Skull. When she got to the bedroom, James was lying on top of the blankets still in his street clothes. He opened his eyes quickly enough that she knew he hadn't been even in a light doze.

"What's with you?" she asked, sitting on her side of the bed and pulling her knees up. She had told him his first night here that she didn't have a side, that she owned the bed and thus all sides were hers, so he'd claimed the side closer to the door, the more vulnerable side, and she'd let him. "What happened this week?"

She'd spent the night in Brooklyn on Monday, but conflicting schedules had kept them from so much as a shared meal since then. He'd seemed fine, but all they'd had since then were texts and so long as she wasn't getting one-word answers out of him, it wasn't a medium that lent itself to nuance. But she'd spoken to Steve and Peggy, too, and they absolutely would have said something if James had been off. 

"That's the thing," he admitted, voice rough with exhaustion, wry expression on his face. "Nothing happened. It's been a completely normal week, for whatever counts as normal in my completely ridiculous life. Yesterday was fine. I looked at some Macedonian wreckage pictures with the analysts. I had dinner with Steve and we watched the Mets game. Peggy asked me if I could take her to Philly next month. I went home and made the connection at Fulton with, like, thirty seconds of wait time. I had a beer and watched the last two periods of Hawks-Kings game. And sometime during the third, I completely freaked out. I don't know why. But I knew I wasn't going to be able to sleep until I was really tired, so after the game I started reading and then it was four AM and my phone rang."

Natasha had watched him closely as he'd spoken and she looked him over carefully now. He seemed more bewildered and frustrated than anything; the lingering tension she could attribute easily to seeing the Red Skull. He didn't look or sound on the verge of a breakdown -- or a breakthrough. She knew what he looked like when the weight of his world grew too much for him and this wasn't that. She also knew he'd been given anti-anxiety medication and had not taken a single pill; she knew better than to suggest he do so. 

"Do you think you can sleep now?" she asked instead, reaching out to touch his face with her hand. He reached up and held her hand against his stubbly cheek, then turned and kissed it before letting it go. 

"Are you offering to help?" he asked in reply, expression clearly stating what he was implying. 

She rolled her eyes at him. But then he looked so hopeful that she had to laugh. 

"I was going to get some work done while you rested," she began, but in a tone that James would know meant that she could be convinced to change her plans. He half-sat up and reached for her and she let him pull her down and do just that. 

It was noon-ish when they got out of bed again. It felt both indulgent and necessary. Natasha checked her email while James was in the shower and Sonia wasn't the only one alarmed at the idea of any Red Skull roaming around. James talked to Peggy while Natasha showered and found out that yes, she and Steve had been told and James and Natasha were invited over for lunch to discuss things. 

"I'm not surprised," Steve said as they sat around in the kitchen, watching him cook a frittata. He'd diced the veggies by himself -- slowly, carefully -- and now stood unaided at the stove with a spatula in his hand. He was still limited in what he could do on his own, but he _was_ starting to do things on his own and that, in turn, had brought about a whole lot of other progress, mostly emotional. Steve was far less moody and much more _Steve_ , even in the face of his continued disabilities. Which were diminishing for more reasons than just his willingness to work through them; his brain was still healing in the physical sense, too. "It makes sense that they'd use the iconography."

"The question is what else they're using," Peggy said, gesturing for James to get plates and set the table. "Once we get that, we will understand what they hope to gain by it besides more followers." 

"It's a social media world," Natasha pointed out, reaching out to snag a pepper piece off of the cutting board, easily dodging Steve's swat because he'd not intended to hit her. "Depending on who is under the mask, getting more followers might be the sole purpose of the exercise." 

She didn't think it was, but she'd encountered too many too-bright would-be power players who'd confused accruing notoriety with actually having power or knowing what to do with it. They had to keep it as an option, if only one that was more aspirational than likely. 

"It'll be interesting if it does turn out to be Lukin," Steve said, focus entirely on the cutting board he was moving from the island to next to the stove. He waited until he'd set it down before continuing. "We never really got the full story about him and Schmidt."

James came back into the kitchen area and leaned against the fridge, on the opposite side of the stove from where Steve was arranging his ingredients. "I'm not sure 'interesting' is the word I'd use."

Steve looked at him carefully, like he was judging James's frame of mind, which he probably was. "Because you have a very peculiar vocabulary," he told James, smirking at James's frown.

They did this more often now, tease each other, verbal pokes -- and sometimes more physical pokes. Like brothers. It always made Natasha smile because it had taken them both so long to get to this point, over such different routes, and yet here they were. She snuck a look over to Peggy, who was slicing the baguette, and Peggy was smiling, too. 

"Lukin knew who Schmidt was, but not vice-versa," Natasha said once James and Steve were done sticking their tongues out at each other. "Schmidt knew Karpov had control of the Winter Soldier, but didn't know enough about Karpov to realize his connections to both Lukin and Putin. He thought James had been set free at some point after Karpov's death and turned to organized crime because that's what so many others did. He had no idea he'd been set up by Lukin because he didn't know there was a Lukin to set him up."

The explanation was mostly for Peggy and James, since she knew that Steve had read those files many times, had watched the interrogation videos over and over, especially anything to do with the Winter Soldier. 

"I don't know what Lukin knew about Schmidt," James said before anyone could ask. He had been asked a ton of questions about Lukin's motives and opinions over the months he'd been home, having to explain over and over again that he hadn't been Lukin's lieutenant or his confidante or anything that would give him insight into Lukin's plans on a grand scale. He'd been a specialist, a very unique one and the fact that he'd never been idle said enough about Lukin's activities, but, as he'd constantly told his questioners, he had never been Lukin's confessor. "He must have known enough to get me in position, but he didn't exactly explain why he wanted me there."

Steve finished what he was doing on the stove and asked James to open the oven so he could finish it in the broiler. James put the pan in himself because, as he'd put it, this was lunch, not OT, and he was hungry and didn't want to wait for Steve to start again if he dropped it. 

"If it's not Lukin, are there any leads?" Steve asked as they waited. He was leaning against the countertop, arms crossed against his chest, and Natasha was struck by how normal it all looked -- this could have been Steve at any point before his shooting, looking thoughtful and relaxed as he made a meal for his friends and they discussed the craziness of the world they were a part of. "We've arrested or killed most of Schmidt's top guys, but there were a few still in the wild -- at least the last time I was involved."

He said the last part without emphasis and in the same tone he'd use to speak of something that had happened while he'd been in the ice. "It's just another lost year," he'd told Natasha the first time he'd caught her waiting for him to react. "I have so many, I can't let this one be special."

"They're mostly still in the wild," Natasha assured. Steve was pushing to be kept current on what was going on, mostly by asking his friends for informal briefings, but she didn't think he'd done any backreading on what he'd missed. "Bregnoff and Staudevan got pulled in, Girardi got himself killed in Malta, everyone else is pretty much where you left them. As for the new suspects, we have a few, but most of them have ties to Lukin because he was the one consolidating power until Doom spooked him. If it's someone new, not affiliated with either Schmidt or Lukin, we don't have a clue."

When the timer went off, James pointed a finger at Steve, who was reaching for the potholders. "Don't you even think about it," he warned, grabbing them out from under Steve's reach. He carried it straight to the table, leaving Natasha to take the bread and salad and leave Steve and Peggy to get themselves to the table. James came back to help Peggy and Steve made the walk himself. He was less steady over open ground than he was in the confines of the kitchen, but he made it without incident, even if he grasped the chair back hard once he got close enough. 

Lunch, by unspoken agreement, was a break from work. They talked about Steve and Peggy's upcoming adventure at the Met, which Fury was still insisting wasn't going to happen despite knowing full well that it was. Pepper and Tony were taking Peggy and Steve to the Corot and Turner exhibit during the sponsor previews, which would give them space and privacy. Steve was going to use the inducer, although there was still some argument about what he would look like, and both he and Peggy would be in wheelchairs. It was a risk and there would need to be security precautions taken, but they were both looking forward to it unabashedly. It would be Steve's first trip outside since he'd gotten back to New York, his first activity that wasn't directly related to his rehab since he'd been shot, and Natasha was almost blown away by the degree of _want_ he was showing, although she shouldn't have been. 

"You should come," Peggy told James, who waved his fork in refusal because his mouth was full. 

"I got dragged to the Brooklyn Museum a million times when we were kids," he said once he'd swallowed. "Every damned weekend unless I found something better for us to do. Then I was going with him to the Met because they got something new he wanted to see and he needed it for school and I was working in Manhattan. The war didn't even slow him down. What happens when we get to London? Stark's got stashes of booze and food that wasn't in cans and girls to enjoy both with, but the Man with a Plan over there was dragging me off to any place that still had pictures on the walls and then a few places where the fancy stuff was being hidden. I have been subjected to as much culture as I need to be."

Steve was grinning broadly at the rant, Peggy's smile was only slightly more restrained, and even James was having a hard time keeping a straight face. Natasha happened to know that while James was never going to be a culture vulture, he was not nearly the lowbrow ignoramus he claimed to be. He knew more about art than could have been acquired by indifferent osmosis and he was well-read considering how little time he'd actually had for such an activity in his lifetime. Books had been the Winter Soldier's sole companions during his assignments, she suspected. 

"You could have said no," Steve pointed out. "The Mills Brothers weren't exactly going to follow me into the museum and nobody was going to bother me in London."

James made a face as he stabbed a cucumber slice. "I had an obligation," he said. "Especially in London. Who else was going to keep you distracted so that the boys could have their fun?" 

"Is that what we're calling it?" Peggy asked dryly. James and Steve exchanged a look that had the both of them near to bursting with laughter. 

Natasha asked about Miranda, since she wasn't around. 

"She's back at her real job this week," Steve replied with a smirk. He knew better than to think that Miranda's time with him -- and Peggy -- was out of obligation or requirement regardless of the arrangements made to assure its existence. "Whatever she's doing to backstop her visits here doesn't require her presence at Stark Industries, so... It's good for her, though. She's been doing her best to keep track of her real work while she's here, but I don't think she minds being able to give it her full attention for a few days instead of sitting with a Starkpad while I'm finger painting or relearning how to type."

Peggy snorted. "What he really means to say is that he doesn't mind at all that noodle soup and the resulting chopsticks practice have been pushed back."

Steve made a noise of protest, but it was drowned out by James's and Natasha's laughter. 

"I'm looking forward to it," Peggy continued, undeterred. "We've ordered the beef bones for stock and we're going to make the noodles ourselves."

Peggy and Miranda got on like gangbusters for more reasons than it was frequently the two of them against Steve's intractability. Peggy, despite the difference in age and circumstance, was in many ways a good role model and mentor for Miranda in a way that Natasha could never have been even if she'd tried. Both women had jumped in feet-first to incredibly dangerous situations for which they'd had insufficient training and less support and if Miranda hadn't continued on with field operations, Peggy was still someone to talk to and learn from and admire. Peggy enjoyed it, too, differently than the way she'd enjoyed the attentions of the security detail in Wyoming; it was growing into a friendship and, Natasha suspected, both of them could use one more friend. When Miranda's cover story ended, Natasha hoped that they came up with a way for Miranda to still visit, even after hours. 

After lunch, James and Natasha stayed until it was time for Steve's afternoon PT session, which was also unofficially Peggy's naptime -- Peggy still insisted that she did not nap, merely rested her eyes. 

James went back to 44th Street for his regular appointment with Doctor Soo, which Natasha knew would be more necessary than usual considering James's reaction to the reappearance by the Red Skull and this week's disquiet. She told him to call her afterward if he wanted to have dinner, since it was completely unpredictable whether he'd need company or want to go home and be alone but she knew that framing it in those terms was counterproductive.

Before everything had happened this morning, Natasha had planned to spend the day running errands and so she took care of those now, returning to her apartment in the late afternoon with groceries and dry cleaning and a watch with a new battery. Her email inbox was full, but not with anything to do with the Red Skull beyond expressions of shock and disgust. Her contacts weren't really in the HYDRA (or HYDRA-adjacent) business and anyone she'd asked would have to reach out to their networks and all of that took time. 

James called her while she was in the shower after a run in Riverside Park and he sounded drained but not edgy on the message telling her that he was going to go home, so she let him be. She'd call him back later to make sure he was still okay. She took care of some casework unrelated to Lukin or HYDRA, re-submitted the expenses for Amsterdam and Lille, and spent the evening watching the Red Skull video and doing background reading and viewing, pulling out her old notes from the days when Fury had had her chasing the ghost of Johann Schmidt (before he turned out to be real, too). 

Clint emailed the next day, to Fury and Hill with Natasha and James in the CC, that Schmidt was absolutely still in his cell and was "pretty fucking irate" about someone else using his "true face," even in the service of HYDRA. He'd need a few days to interview Schmidt, who wasn't interested in helping defeat HYDRA, but was sufficiently angered by the impersonator that he was willing to talk. "He wants his posterity intact, damn the consequences." In the meanwhile, the Israelis were investigating all of Schmidt's visitors -- he didn't have social visiting rights, but historians could apply for permission to interview him -- to see if any of them had been more than they'd seemed. "It's not like they hadn't done background checks on everyone and the interviews looked like _The Silence of the Lambs_ with Schmidt in a plexiglass box," Clint wrote. "But not everyone flies their freak flag as proudly as he did and HYDRA did gangbusters among the academy set."

Clint ended up being gone more than a week because while Schmidt liked to talk, the Israelis had also come up with a lead of their own. One of the historians who'd been cleared to speak to Schmidt had been a Russian ("An actual Russian, not one of the hundred thousand Russians living here.") doing research on HYDRA's role in Operation Barbarossa and Valeri Ilyich Atyushkov, it turned out, had ties to Lukin. "As in Lukin paid for his education," Clint explained during a conference call. "We don't know the actual depth of his connection -- if Lukin's the guy's real father, if he knew the guy's father, if he _killed_ the guy's father -- but there is one. We're gonna watch the tapes of his interview, see what kind of questions he asked or if there was any kind of secret messaging going on."

"I'll ask around about Atyushkov," Natasha offered, writing out the name on her notes. Next to her, James had done the same. He had been taking notes in both Russian and English, depending on the content, and also drawing an abstract maze of a design that had been abandoned as soon as Clint's call had been connected. His handwriting was equally bad in both languages, but not as atrocious as Clint's.

"Is there any chance that Schmidt sanctioned Lukin's ascendancy within HYDRA?" Hill asked. 

Clint made a noise and Natasha could see in her mind the expression on his face. "He was was pretty bonkers about there being a new Red Skull," he replied. "I think if he'd been tutoring Lukin, he'd have seen this as a betrayal and ratted him out right away. And no, I don't think he was faking the bonkers part. He was ranting and pounding on the glass for _hours_ after I told him."

"Whatever else Atyushkov is, he's also a legitimate academic," Zubov-from-the-Russia-Desk piped up. He was sitting across from Natasha typing away on his laptop. "He's got six monographs out and a slew of articles, very prolific. Area of specialization is the Soviet pushback at the end of the war, specifically the Upper Silesian Offensive."

James had been slouching in his seat, but he sat up like a bolt. 

"Something to add, Mister Barnes?" Fury prompted when James said nothing. 

"I got taken by the Russians outside Oppeln," James said after a moment, eye still on his notepad. "HYDRA was all over the area at that point, trying to salvage what they could from their Silesian bases."

After the Commandos' early success in destroying HYDRA's bases -- from the map Steve had seen in Italy -- Schmidt had moved the bulk of HYDRA's operations east, figuring with typical Nazi bias that the Slavs on the Eastern Front, already dead and dying in uncountable numbers, would prove less of a threat to his goals than the Allies. 

"Atyushkov wouldn't be the first historian to be studying the HYDRA angle of German-Soviet combat," Zubov said slowly as he typed quickly. "But almost all of the work done so far has focused on earlier periods, when Schmidt was still alive -- or, shall we say, in his original chassis? There has been practically nothing on the Post-Schmidt period and, as my colleague Doctor Sanchez will confirm, most of what was written was Soviet propaganda and completely discredited."

Sanchez nodded. "Anything worth reading has come out in the last ten years or so and has been mostly science histories -- technology studies of the Tesseract weapons used on the Eastern Front and some medical histories of surviving test subjects and, more usually, the mass graves found at HYDRA sites in Poland."

Natasha looked over at James then, along with almost everyone else in the room, and he bore it stoically, staring unseeingly at one of the monitors behind Zubov's head. 

"So one of us is reading Atyushkov's books," Clint summarized. He couldn't see anything -- this was an audio-only conference call -- but it wouldn't be hard to imagine what the scene around the table in New York would look like and how much James would appreciate a change in focus. "And that person is not going to be me."

None of the texts had been translated into English, although a few had been translated into German and Polish. Which wouldn't exclude Clint, whose Russian had become near-fluent after partnering with Natasha, from being a candidate. But the task was going to be split between analysts who had the languages and the historical expertise, although Natasha was unsurprised when James asked for copies as well. Fury looked unhappy when he did, but gave Zubov a tiny nod when Zubov looked to him before agreeing. 

"Does any of this indicate that Lukin's still alive?" Peggy asked Natasha as they watched Steve and Tony bicker about what to put on the pizzas Steve was making. Miranda, wielding a ladle from the tomato sauce, ended the argument by pointing to the far side of the kitchen island and Tony went meekly, snatching a green pepper ring in defiance as he did so, while Steve was ordered back to grating cheese. Someone, either Pepper or Peggy or both, had clearly told Miranda that both men were surprisingly biddable when ordered around by strong women. 

"Not definitively," Natasha replied, swirling a carrot stick in the homemade ranch dressing. "It certainly sounds like Atyushkov was researching on behalf of Lukin for the purpose of whatever he is doing with HYDRA, but the interview with Schmidt was last year and the books go back up to fifteen years. There's nothing that says that yes, Aleksander Lukin is under the mask, even if it's sounding more and more likely."

The facial recognition software had said that the Red Skull in the video could be Lukin, but it hadn't given a degree of certainty that made it definitive. And the audio track had turned into an even bigger failure because it turned out that the voice had been _dubbed_. The Red Skull might or might not have been lip synching, but even with the distorting filters removed, there was no way to tell who he was by voice or intonation. 

Tony was now opening a can, griping at Miranda about being a billionaire technologist stuck using a manual can opener because Steve, even when his hands made operating it difficult, had refused an electric opener. "Let the Star Spangled Man work on his dexterity and do it."

"He's the man with the plan," Miranda replied, still holding ladle and gesturing with it. "You're the man with the can. And the can opener, oh master of technology." 

"Is the connection to Lukin why Bucky is off working up an appetite?" Peggy asked, sipping at her iced tea to hide her smile. And her pride in her protégé, Natasha suspected. 

James had promised that he meant to keep their lunch date at Stark Tower, but he wanted some time to himself before showing up. Natasha wasn't sure whether she should be hurt or worried that his response to other parts of his past than his actions as the Winter Soldier tended to send him off by himself instead of turning to her, but he wasn't pretending that nothing was wrong and he would answer a question if she asked it. He was talking, she thought, to Doctor Soo, and that was probably doing him more good. He wasn't pulling away, even if he wasn't sharing, and Natasha had too many parts of her own life that she wasn't eager to lay open for inspection for her to make an issue out of his choices, even if she wished he chose otherwise. 

"Lukin's pet historian was researching the time and place where James went from being HYDRA's toy to the Soviets'," Natasha said, which Peggy could decipher as an answer. "Whether it was for the HYDRA context or whether it had anything to do with James himself, nobody knows."

There would be nothing on the Winter Soldier in any of Atyushkov's books; as far as the official Russian history of the Winter Soldier went, he had been created by the Soviets, not captured in Poland wearing HYDRA insignias and easily identifiable as an American POW. 

"The parts of his story where he was powerless, where he was a victim, they still distress him more than the parts where he was a perpetrator," Peggy sighed. "I don't think I'll ever decide if that's better or worse."

Steve and Miranda were explaining to Tony -- who had opened his can -- why they needed both fresh mozzarella and the mass-produced kind from the supermarket and whether they should add the asiago _and_ the pecorino ("Wait, are we actually wondering if there's such a thing as too much cheese?") when Pepper appeared. She had a break in her schedule for lunch today, which was not always a given, and, like the rest of them, tended to visit with Steve when she was free for a meal. 

"Pep," Tony whined, pointing at Miranda, who was now holding the pepper rings so she could coordinate placement with Steve, who was on sausage detail. "I don't like her, she's bossy."

Pepper smiled indulgently at Tony, then turned to Miranda. "I think we might keep you."

James turned up as the second pie -- pepperoni and canned mushrooms -- was going in to the oven. He was carrying a couple of sixpacks of what turned out to be a brand of coffee soda that he and Steve had drunk as kids. "Let me tell you, we could have gotten _cases_ of the stuff for what it costs for a bottle now," James said with disgruntlement as he put the Manhattan Special in the freezer to cool it faster. 

"Oh my God, are we outnumbered by cranky old people?" Tony gasped, counting heads by turning and pointing at people in turn. The last one he counted was Miranda. "Okay, so you are the tie-breaking vote between 'prime of life' and 'birthday greeting from Willard Scott.' You can stay." 

"Why thank you so much," Miranda replied, extra syrup in her drawl. 

James got out of the way in the kitchen and came over to Natasha, presenting himself for inspection as he always did when he ran off after something upset him. (It was another reason she didn't confront him about it.) He looked like himself and she smiled as he approached, leaning forward to kiss her cheek. After saying hello to Peggy -- who did not comment on his scenic route from 44th Street -- he stayed by Natasha's chair, his right arm across the back and his body next to hers. 

Lunch conversation was the museum trip, scheduled for the following Monday. Fury had given in to the inevitable and, with a six-person security detail and the inducer set to 'Old Man Steve,' the evening was a go. Steve would be a friend of Peggy's, if anyone asked. There was also a discussion about movies and television and what sort of a pool party Steve's aquatic therapy was turning into now that both Miranda and Peggy were getting in the pool. Miranda was swimming laps ("I have to do something to balance out all the food I'm eating here!") and Peggy had started her own fitness program under the guidance of Candice, the physical therapist. They all tended to forget that Peggy was being looked after, too, because up until now, Steve had required much more care. But now they were almost even -- Steve was better in some aspects, Peggy in others -- and the gap would only grow. Peggy's ninety-eighth birthday party had been last month and she'd started using Steve's discarded walker while Steve was throwing a frisbee in PT with the hope, and perhaps the expectation, that he would be able to throw the shield once more.

Neither Natasha nor James were around when the museum trip occurred; Natasha was in Madrid and James was in Prague, both of them meeting with contacts who had indicated that they had information on Lukin's associates, if not the man himself. Natasha's trip was a sequence of conversations with contacts, but from what she gleaned, James's trip was more a sequence of surveillance ops; he still functioned as the Winter Soldier when out in the field and that man was not one who got his information sitting in cafes enjoying tapas and wine. Regardless of means, the results were largely the same: breadcrumbs, which was better than nothing, but still just morsels. James returned with photographs of three men he said were moderately high up in Lukin's organizational food chain -- not high enough to have ordered the Winter Soldier around, but high enough that James would have gotten in trouble for putting them in danger. Meanwhile, Natasha got the lowdown on Yuri Revchenko, a Kronas VP who had been Lukin's most trusted man on the board. He had stayed on after Lukin's initial arrest and had generally been assumed to be Lukin's proxy; Doom had tried to get rid of him, but he had lacked the votes until after Lukin's presumed death and Kronas was preparing for reorganization under its new ownership. Revchenko had accepted his severance package and disappeared to parts unknown; if he had gone to Lukin's side, he had not been one of the men to be photographed boarding the ill-fated Gulfstream. But Natasha now knew where he was, or at least where he was supposed to be: Singapore. She wasn't going to be following up on that personally, that's what regular-flavor field agents were for, but that didn't mean she was going back to New York.

"I think it's time to start taking the Perm rumors seriously," Sonia said in an email. "There's too much smoke for there not to be any fire."

The Urals region of Russia had long been a HYDRA-friendly area, for reasons both practical and very particularly Russian. It was far enough from Moscow to matter in terms of reach and resentment, a convenient place to exile those out of favor and still demand production from everyone else. It was where generations of Soviet leaders had buried their enemies and hidden their secrets, including Minyar. Perm and Ufa had both been mentioned early on as places Lukin might flee to before he'd ever broken his house arrest in Latveria; they had both turned heavily to HYDRA's favor years ago, back when Schmidt had been cementing alliances within Russia. The region's welcome had been one of the reasons Putin had been willing to sell Minyar to HYDRA: it had gotten to the point that he hadn't been sure that he could hold it in what had more or less become enemy territory.

Sonia didn't have eyewitnesses who had seen Lukin or any of the other dead men walking, but she did have chatter that said that someone important to HYDRA had turned up in Perm. The FSB was certainly looking for someone, but to no success because anyone in the position to know did not give their loyalties to Moscow. Natasha kept that in mind even as she submitted a request to go to Perm. Fury asked her if she wanted backup and she said no without asking if by backup he meant James. Despite his performance in Latveria, this really wasn't his sort of mission for the same reason Madrid hadn't been his sort of mission (or Clint's) and she was comfortable working alone. Which was just as well, since James wanted to continue in Prague and see where his leads went.

She flew to Ufa rather than Perm; it would give her a sense of the region's sensitivity and she might find out what she needed without ever traveling north, where the risks of discovery would be greater even if Lukin were dead and nobody was in Perm. She stayed for more than a week, wandering into mosques and churches and cultural centers. The Bashkirs and Tatars were overtly in support of HYDRA -- Natasha saw the odd flag openly displayed -- but the ethnic Russians were pro-HYDRA as well, if less demonstratively. It was a curious mix of Russian fatalism and HYDRA aspirationalism, unsurprising and familiar right down to the part where everyone thought it was new and different and better. She saw a memorial to the valiant defenders who had perished at Minyar during the SHIELD invasion the other year and graffiti celebrating the death of Captain America, which she did not bother photographing, and a mural featuring the Red Skull preaching about a New Russia, which she did. She crashed a party for the faculty and graduate students of Political Science at the Bashkir State University, where she heard more of the same, just with extra bullshit. This was a Poli Sci gathering, after all. There was a lot of talk about Latveria and Doom -- both widely reviled for more than the usual reasons -- and speculation about Lukin, whether he was actually alive or whether the rumors were just that and there would be 'sightings' of him for the next fifty years. It was not very informative right up until it turned into a gold mine. 

"I don't think I've seen you around," a young man said to her, right in her face. He was a graduate student, she thought, and had been drinking heavily, but not so heavily that he didn't have control of himself or hadn't noticed she didn't belong. There was an edge to his voice that was a little too... curious. That hadn't been just a cheesy pick-up line. "You're not in the department. I know everyone in the department and you are far too beautiful to even be dating one of our merry band of outcasts. So who are you really?"

Natasha slammed back the rest of the vodka in her glass she'd been nursing -- this was Russia, no shotglasses here -- and reached past other bodies to dump the glass on the bar. She smiled and leaned in to her questioner, noting that he matched the motion automatically. "FSB," she whispered loudly in his ear. "I'm here to see which one of you will lead me to the Red Skull."

The man laughed and Natasha leaned back as if pleased with herself. "Very funny. FSB agents are even uglier than academics and you don't smell of piss or brimstone."

She shrugged modestly and admitted that she was a student at MGIMO but didn't want anyone to know because she'd be accused of slumming.

"Probably for the best," her interolocutor agreed as he gestured for the bartender to give them both another round. "Especially here -- drunkenness and jealousy make a marriage that produces ugly children."

Two juice glasses of vodka were produced, one handed over to her, and then a plate of pickles materialized. She chose a modestly-sized cornichon and they saluted each other with their glasses, drank, and ate their pickles.

Seemingly reassured by his friendliness, she went on to say that she was in Ufa because of some advice a visiting lecturer had given her at a gathering like this one. "Very off the record," she emphasized, putting a finger to her lips. "He said that this was where the future of Russian politics was being born and if I really believed as I did, then I should come here and see for myself instead of sitting in Moscow with the old guard and their dying wisdom."

This was not very subtle as far as leading a prospective source, but he wasn't very sober, he was very interested in her breasts, and between the two of those, she didn't need to be subtle. She just needed not to be caught in a lie. Her instincts had said that he'd be useful, so finding out how useful as quickly as possible was best -- if he was a poseur, she could move on to the next candidate.

"Who told you this?" he asked, again with something in his voice that made it not an idle question although he was pretending it was. "Sending someone to the Urals from Moscow hasn't historically been a _favor_."

Natasha gave him a thoughtful look before confessing that it had been Atyushkov, who did teach in Moscow but had been an occasional visitor to Perm and Ufa despite having no family or ties to the Urals. "He's a historian who--"

"I know who he is," her 'friend' assured, a smile on his face, like he'd found a fellow traveler. Which, perhaps, he thought he had.

"I'm glad," she said, then smiled coyly. "Because I still don't know who you are."

Gennadiy Petrovich Kusnetsov bowed with a flourish, then led her over to where the chafing dishes were lined up on tables. "We should eat if we're going to drink and still make sense."

Once armed with plates of food, they started talking about the new Russian HYDRA and how it was better and different than what had been introduced by Schmidt, who'd had the temerity to believe that he could conquer Russia when his old boss, Hitler, had so completely failed. "We're going to do it right this time by having it a little bit less aimed at the ploughman," Gena mused. "We learned our lesson about any revolution that starts off by shooting all of the intellectuals."

Natasha didn't think Russia had learned anything of the sort, but she smiled in agreement anyway.

He asked her questions then about HYDRA's presence in Moscow -- which she could answer because she'd done her research -- and specifically at MGIMO, which she had to BS, but well enough that it raised no further questions. They were joined by a couple of friends of Gena's, whom he vouched for and, more importantly, whom he vouched _her_ to. They spoke confidently and expansively on HYDRA's philosophical platform, which was not all that different than the gnostic-socialist veneer over bloodthirsty tyranny that Schmidt's version had campaigned on. But it was different and better because it had been put out by a Russian for Russians and none of that Nazi claptrap. None of Natasha's new friends seemed to notice that the same old elitism and same old bloodymindedness remained -- even against some of the same 'problem populations' that had historically been the first to go. The New HYDRA had a Russian flavor to it, granted, but that just meant it sounded a little more like Stalin and a little less like Hitler.

"How long are you here?" Gena asked. There was a meeting on Tuesday for local HYDRA deputies and she would do well to meet them and build her connections.

"What she should do is go up to Perm," Nadya insisted instead. "We're not nothing, but there, there is where everything is."

Did she think she could get Artyushkov to write her a letter of introduction? That could get her in all the way to the top.

Natasha admitted she wasn't sure, pointing out that it had taken a lot of vodka for either of them to feel free enough to risk speaking of HYDRA or Lukin in the shadow of the Kremlin and there was no guarantee that Artyushkov remembered the conversation, let alone her name.

Instead, Nadya pulled out her smartphone and shot off an email to one of her counterparts in Perm, giving them Natasha's (cover) name and email (one of several she used for situations like this) and saying that Natasha would be in Perm next week and could she visit with them and introduce herself.

Natasha stayed until the party broke up but declined an offer to go over to Vadik's apartment for a continuation of the gathering, citing too much alcohol and not enough sleep. She let them walk her 'home,' which was a hotel of very modest means, and she stayed there for an hour before slipping out the rear and on to her actual hotel, which was across town and less impoverished. It took her until almost dawn to get back and she was tired, but she pulled out her laptop and initiated a secure connection and started passing on names and places and her conclusion that she was pretty damned sure Lukin was alive, well, and living in Perm. And then she crashed. 

When she woke up, there were messages from Zubov with follow-up questions to her admittedly spare initial report and from Fury telling her to come home, her mission was complete. If Lukin was in Perm, there was no way she was going to be able to meet up with even the junior varsity HYDRA council without being recognized and endangering both herself and the mission; SHIELD had plenty of operatives who could go to Russia and take care of the next phases of observation and infiltration. 

Getting out of Ufa would take a few days; she'd spook her new friends if she disappeared directly. She met Gena and Nadya for coffee two days later and, while she was there, got a phone call from her brother (James, enjoying the role playing far too much) telling her that their mother had gone into the hospital with another gallstone attack and they were going to take it out this time and she needed to come home because Mom was being a drama queen and quite sure that she was going to die in the hospital and didn't want to do so without seeing her daughter. They had a mild argument, but Natasha gave in at the end and said she would change her ticket back to Moscow to today. 

When she got back to New York, she had to sit in the conference room and debrief with Fury, Hill, James, Clint, and a dozen analysts plus the supervisory agent who was going to be controlling the agents going to Perm. It took forever, but once it was done, Clint and James took her to Stark Tower because Steve had been holding off on Prime Rib Night until she got back. Miranda wasn't around to help -- she'd been invited, but had a prior engagement -- so it became a group effort, with Natasha only drafted into scrubbing potatoes and washing vegetables in deference to her long day. 

Once the meat was in the oven, Natasha got the replay of the museum trip ("Seriously, we should have brought restraints for the wheelchairs. Neither of them would actually stay in them.") and tentative plans for the next outing, this time for lunch or a trip to the park because the weather was gorgeous now almost every day and Steve could go no further than the penthouse deck without protection and the inducer. 

"I don't want this to be the rest of my life," Steve said as they sat in the living room with the spectacular panoramic views of lower Manhattan and Brooklyn and Jersey. There was wine and cheese and vegetables and fruits, although Tony was on duty to refill glasses and James to fetch things from the kitchen and check on the food because while Steve could get around fine on his own unassisted, two intense PT sessions a day meant he was tired by the end of it. "I don't want to live like a movie star or the President. I'm going to be able to live on my own at some point, sooner than later, and when that point comes, I don't want to do it in hiding." 

Steve was getting closer to that point every day. He was walking faster and with surer steps even over open ground, he could carry things when he walked and didn't need to watch his hands to make sure that they were doing what he wanted them to do. His PT sessions were no longer strictly about regaining normal function, but with an eye toward what he'd been able to do as Captain America. He wasn't talking about putting on the uniform and wielding the shield again, but Natasha couldn't be the only one wondering if he wasn't thinking about it. And wondering what, if anything, could be done if Steve decided that he didn't want to live with the restrictions imposed upon him anymore.

"I think I should be insulted," Tony mused. "But I have better security than the President and better digs than most movie stars."

Tony wasn't actually insulted; he understood that how he lived was not how the rest of them wanted to and, if you caught him at the right moment -- or simply asked Pepper -- then he would admit that he found life in the spotlight occasionally claustrophobic and that Iron Man was a response to that as much as it was to all of the other stated reasons.

Natasha spent most of the next three days at 44th Street doing follow-up with the Russia Desk and the HYDRA task force. The next five were spent split between 44th Street, Stark Tower, and Roosevelt Hospital's VIP ward because Peggy's general malaise had been complicated by an irregular heartbeat and the medical staff assigned to her and Steve had wanted more intense monitoring than the setup at Stark Tower currently allowed. Steve was with her, wearing the inducer, and everyone else took their turns because unlike Steve's room back in Wyoming, there were limits on duration and quantity of visitors here. She was in good spirits, all considering, but Steve was brittle and somber when she wasn't watching him and James stayed close to him. James was a different man from when he'd needed his arm twisted before he promised Peggy he'd look after Steve after her death, but Natasha didn't doubt that the conversation was on his mind. They talked about it obliquely once, late at night after they'd spent the evening with Steve at Stark Tower. "He's going to do something stupid when she dies," he said quietly in the dark, the 'and I'm either going to be the one chasing him down afterward or possibly along for the ride' went unsaid. "You'll have help," she assured.

Peggy was released on the sixth day, but more or less put on bed rest, or at least couch rest. She was not to be gallivanting around town or making any more trips down to Philly for the time being. The picnic in the park was put on hold, possibly to be relocated to the penthouse deck.

James finally went on his return trip to Prague; he'd been meant to go the week previous to follow up on more of Lukin's old associates, but he'd waited until Tony was back from his own business trip because Steve was still edgy even with Peggy back in her usual seat watching him draw and Miranda back from her HR-mandated retreat to make hummingbird cake. 

"You want the unvarnished truth?" Clint asked Fury after a quick meeting with Hill and the HYDRA and Russia task force had ended and Fury had asked how Steve was doing.

"I get enough bullshit during the day, so yes," Fury replied.

"He's stir-crazy," Clint said. "And the only reason you shouldn't be working on a draft of your 'Captain America isn't dead after all' speech is because Peggy got sick. Her hospital stay probably bought you his compliance for another couple of months, longer if she relapses or anything else happens. But don't build your house on that foundation. He might not be running twenty miles an hour yet, but the parts of him that can screw you up are working just fine and Barnes will gladly help him."

Fury nodded, although his frown clearly communicated that he didn't think that James was going to be the only one. Not when Clint and Natasha had gone into Latveria with him against orders simply because they'd thought it had been the right thing to do.

Natasha was at Steve's that afternoon, although all of them were actually out on the penthouse deck. Steve was doing his PT session on one of the lower levels, Peggy was reading a book on her Starkpad with the new gooseneck-armed holder Tony had built for her, Miranda was reluctantly in the shade ("can't tan on company time") working on China Desk assignments, and Tony, wearing sunglasses and a hideous Hawaiian shirt, was building something on one of the tables, Dummy holding a wire basket full of tools and parts that he seemed to move capriciously out of Tony's range or offer to Miranda judging by Tony's griping. Natasha was on a lounger in the sun, enjoying herself under SPF 50 protection, reading the reports of the agents in Perm and Ufa. A new message popped up, from Sonia. "What is your paramour up to?" To which Natasha had no answer because James hadn't come back yet, although so long as Fury or Hill wasn't asking the same question, it couldn't be that bad. Unless they didn't know, which was entirely possible. Natasha messaged back that she needed more context and got back a link from the English-language Zagreb newspaper about the suspicious suicide of Nikolai Kovalic, local entrepreneur (translation: mobster) who had been rumored to have been Lukin's host while hiding in the city. "Reverting to old habits?" was the comment on the link. Natasha didn't think that was the case, but she also had no idea if this would be the only corpse James was leaving behind as a souvenir. She doubted that Fury knew how James was getting his intelligence, but she wasn't going to say anything -- to Fury, at least.

"Stop showing off, Rogers!" Tony called out and everyone looked up (or down, technically) to find Steve doing a handstand. Steve responded by laughing, but he quickly lost his balance after that and toppled over, landing in a heap and then righting himself. With his hair at all angles and a boyish smile on his face as he sat on his mat in the sun, he looked like a proud kindergartener. He'd made another jump forward in the last couple of days, the extent of which was still being determined, but if he was now doing handstands, that was a pretty good benchmark.

Candice's next trick for Steve was a less exciting set of yoga moves, so they all returned their attention to what they'd been doing.

"Holy shit!" Miranda squawked a few minutes later. "Pardon my French."

Natasha looked over to where Miranda was staring at her laptop, but then she looked down at her own tablet because she'd gotten a message from SHIELD. There was little chance the two events were unrelated. "That's not good," she murmured. She hoped this wasn't something James had done, although she suspected she'd be getting a phone call if that were the case. 

"Junior agent reports first," Peggy announced, looking over at Miranda. At the other end of the table from Miranda, Tony looked up from what he was doing, but only for a moment. He was still listening, of course. Tony's obliviousness to world events, especially world events his friends were likely to be tossed into headfirst, was entirely feigned. 

"Russian nationalists just assassinated the Chinese ambassador in Moscow," Miranda said as she skimmed her screen. "They blew up his car with some kind of projectile. Not an RPG, but definitely launched. Tverskaya Street near the Kremlin."

Tverskaya wasn't that near the Kremlin, but Natasha knew what had been meant. 

So did Peggy, who must have had to memorize the map of Moscow back during the Cold war. "Vlad is going to have a tough time explaining this one away," she laughed darkly. "Which, I presume, will be the point. Is this Lukin telling his old mate that he's alive?" 

It was certainly at the top of Natasha's list of possibilities and, as she skimmed the email sent to her, at the top of the Russia Desk's. 

"Or Barnes is up to his old tricks and wants to goose Lukin into showing himself to deny it," Tony offered, attention back on his tinkering. "But I think he'd blow up a Russian if that's what he was fixing to do."

Natasha made a dismissive noise, but in light of the message from Sonia, she didn't protest as hard as she could have. 

"The Belyye Rytsari are taking credit," she said instead. "Putin had promised to get rid of them entirely. It will look very bad that he hasn't." 

After the original set of bombings in China and the subsequent ramp-up of arms and hostilities, Putin had had to expend almost all of his political capital to settle things back down. It had been exhausting and wasteful and embarrassing, all of which Lukin had intended when he'd instigated the attacks, but Putin had triumphed in the end by essentially guaranteeing future peace through his absolute control of Russia's political infrastructure and military. He'd promised to crack down on the nationalist groups and there'd been many public arrests and trials, some of them of the old Soviet style of show trials and more than a few incidental arrests of opposition activists, reporters, and the odd artist who had made Putin's list of personal enemies -- including anyone Putin thought might have aided Lukin at any point, especially with hiding the Winter Soldier. The gulags had been filled, which had placated the Chinese enough to get the PLA moved off the borders and the international money flowing again. 

But the murder of the Chinese ambassador by one of the most noxious of the nationalist groups -- they were little more than skinheads, adopting not only Nazi iconography, but also picking up white robes from the KKK -- within a mile of the Kremlin was going to stir everything back up again, at best prove Putin a liar and at worst put Russia and China back on a prelude to war. It was an embarrassment for Putin. 

There was nothing to do but wait for details at this point -- the ambassador's car was probably still smoldering -- so she accepted Tony's offer of dinner, which was made early enough that drinks and hors d'oeuvres were a necessary preliminary. Steve -- freshly washed -- joined them and both he and Tony wheedled Miranda into agreeing to stay, promising she wouldn't have to cook. Clint was found on the LIE, driving back from Mattituck, and he'd see how he felt once he got through the traffic closer to the city, but yes, he'd probably show up and no, he hadn't heard anything about Moscow because he hadn't checked his email. 

"Awesome," he said when he was told. "I could have told him that sentencing the children's cartoonist to three years' labor wasn't going to make his problems go away." 

Natasha finally heard from James after she'd gotten home from dinner, which was still the middle of the night in Eastern Europe. "You're up late," she said.

"Had to take care of some stuff," James replied, sounding tired.

"So I've been hearing," Natasha said, stopping the kettle from whistling as soon as it started. "I've been getting postcards from interested parties."

James made a noise that might have been disgust or frustration depending on the look on his face, which she couldn't see. 

"None of those postcards have been from 44th Street," she continued, "but I wouldn't count on them not knowing."

This time, James laughed, humorless and hollow, and Natasha suddenly understood. She hadn't gotten any phone calls from Fury because Fury was the one who'd given James his orders. 

"I see," she said. She wondered who else other than Kovalic had been on the request list. Which might not have been a hit list, just a 'it doesn't matter if they survive the encounter' list, although the end result was going to be the same because it was neater that way and Fury would know that. 

"Does it bother you?" James asked, more wary than curious but definitely both. 

"Professionally, no, of course not," she replied quickly. She went into the living room, leaving the tea to steep. "Personally, I think I've earned the right to worry about you and how you handle the return to that kind of work."

James's relationship with his history was a living thing, changing and growing, and while he'd stopped believing that the Winter Soldier was the most important part of that history, Natasha wasn't sure she'd have gone so far as to say that he was ready to relive any of that time, even for the 'right' reasons. Which might or might not include James still believing that he had to do what Fury asked or risk the life he'd built for himself here. 

"You've earned the right to a lot more than that," James said meaningfully. "I'm... it's bothering me less than I thought, which I think freaks me out a little. I don't feel different now than I used to and I thought I would."

"Now that you're defending your country again?" She turned on the ceiling fan because it wasn't warm enough for the AC. 

"Nah, it was never about that -- never _really_ about that," James scoffed. "Even when I was in uniform, back when Steve was still a skinny kid at Cooper Union, I knew better. You don't fight for your country or your generals or stuff like that. You fight for the guys next to you. I'm not doing this for some greater good. I'm doing this so that Steve can get his apartment back. And I thought it would feel different than doing it because I'd been ordered to. But it didn't."

Natasha thought before she spoke, since this wasn't the time for platitudes or casual comments. 

"We all become someone else when we do this sort of work," she said slowly. "It's a skin we put on to protect what's good about us, keep it clean and safe. It makes sense that the Winter Soldier is the skin you'd wear -- there's no one better. You shouldn't look at that and wonder why it doesn't feel different. You should look at who you are when you slip that skin off after it's over. Before, there was nothing but that skin, nothing but the Winter Soldier. Now... well, now there's _you_."

James was silent for a moment that started to stretch. She could hear his breathing, but finally he spoke. 

"You never fail to amaze me," he said. She could hear his smile. 

"I'm offended your standards are so low that I constantly surpass them," she replied, since both of them could speak obliquely. "Are you coming home soon? You're missing Steve doing handstands on the tops of tall buildings."

"I'm missing a lot more than that," James replied. "I'll be back soon."


	17. Chapter 17

Soon turned out to be two days, by which point SHIELD knew that the Chinese ambassador to Russia and four others (two security, two staff) had been killed in an explosion caused by a new weapon not previously fielded in any battle. Fury had pulled off a masterstroke by getting the WSC to hand the investigation over to SHIELD -- the Chinese hadn't needed too much convincing to agree that the Russians were the last people to be investigating what could very well have been a government-sanctioned assassination and to insist on an independent third party. The Russians were incensed not only because it made an international mockery of their justice system, but also because they had no love for Fury or SHIELD after the Minyar invasion. However, under the circumstances -- which included a re-mobilization of the PLA -- Putin had no choice but to go along with it. It cost him credibility, which he tried to salvage by insisting that no Avenger (especially Natasha) set foot on Russian soil. 

"It works like high-velocity bubble gum," Tony explained as they sat in one of the auditoriums at 44th Street, the room full of analysts, Direct Action Service commanders, brass, and other interested parties. He'd been brought in as soon as the first forensics reports had indicated something new and strange. SHIELD had a very large, very capable unit dedicated to weapons design, production, and analysis, but there was quantity of quality and then there was Tony Stark. "You fire it at something, it sticks, and goes boom."

"It's projectile C-4," someone down front said. "Or napalm."

"Yes and no," Tony agreed, moving his head in that way he had to show that you were more wrong than right. "It's a plastic explosive, but compositionally, it's very different than C-4 or Semtex in ways I'm not going to get into in a room full of liberal arts majors. What you need to know is that there's nothing even the most modern military can field that can defend against it. A: it will stick to _anything_ , animal, vegetable, mineral, or polymer, and it won't come off. And B: because it's programmable even after contact. It's a smart explosive. It combines the best features of a remote detonator with the best features of an RPG. It's a terrorist's dream weapon."

That got the room buzzing. On either side of Natasha, James and Clint sat up straighter, Tony's presentation suddenly transforming from comedic science-show sketch to professionally crucial briefing. 

Before a much more attentive audience, Tony explained how the explosive was laced with nanites and other elements that made the explosive material controllable to a remarkable degree even after implantation so long as the target was within range -- and that range was expansive and would grow as the design improved. The explosive material was more or less untraceable now and the projectile delivery method -- Tony's layman's explanation was something like an egg or a soap bubble that would shatter on impact -- meant that implantation could be both too quick to respond to for an immediate detonation (like an RPG) or completely unnoticed and from far enough away to avoid detection.

"Nobody had to get near the embassy limo to attach it," Tony explained. "It could have been fired at the the vehicle or it could have been fired directly in front of it so that it was picked up by a wheel like gum or dog shit, nothing the driver or passengers would notice. It could have been there for weeks, it could have been there for moments. And the only reason we know it was there at all was because this was a field test, not a product roll-out. There was discontiguous spatter, which in theory either shouldn't happen or shouldn't matter but did here because it didn't detonate with the rest, which was how it was found. Everything else was burned away completely, no residue, no tiny little nanite corpses, nothing. If it weren't for that little blob, this would look like spontaneous combustion and there would have been no way to prove that the explosion was anything but an accident."

"Not just a terrorist's dream weapon, then," Clint muttered. "Jesus."

Tony went on a bit more about what it could do and what kind of launching mechanism could be used (custom job most likely, but a shotgun or grenade launcher would work in a pinch), but got quickly down to the bottom line: "This compound is incredibly expensive to develop and produce in any quantity and requires an extremely high level of technical expertise. Your Russian skinheads might be taking credit for the hit, but if they even fired the projectile, it was given to them. They couldn't afford to buy it and they sure as hell don't have the capacity to produce it themselves."

"So this was HYDRA?" 

Tony shrugged. "This was someone with a lot of cash. I leave it up to you to follow the money."

Which was not strictly the truth, since Tony would be involved in the investigation in the same way he'd helped them ferret out AIM: they would give him lists of possible candidates and he would cross off names and add others. The part that truly didn't involve him was SHIELD's choice of how to handle the public statements. They had no actual _evidence_ to support Tony's conclusion that the BR either had good connections or were someone's convenient cutouts, despite everyone believing it was true, but saying nothing continued to escalate the tension between Russia and China and, crucially, Putin's standing inside Russia, where the population was starting to get uncomfortable. It was one thing for him to be making billionaires disappear, but it was another if his means and methods of securing power put Russia on a war footing. The average man on the street in Moscow or Chelyabinsk or Volgograd wasn't inclined to die to secure anyone's legacy and the Chinese were growing increasingly tired of being picked on by a man who would be king. SHIELD did its best, strongly implying that there was a larger game afoot without explicitly saying that Putin was being framed, which did not keep troops from massing on the borders, but did keep them from crossing over.

"There has to be a response from whoever's in Perm," Clint said as they sat around Steve's dining room table. Steve and Peggy had gotten their second-hand briefing over a late lunch, which Steve had made himself because Miranda had been back at 44th Street since the day after the assassination. Stark Industries could not keep up the pretense of heavy investment in China with the possibility of a war on and Miranda had been needed as the China Desk was working around the clock -- possibly literally because of the time differences. She'd been invited over since her return to her regular duties, but as a regular guest, which still meant talking shop and cooking with Steve, but that's because of who they were and not out of any sense of obligation. "If HYDRA did this, they're going to either gloat or have a next step. If they didn't do this, they're going to want to know who did."

Natasha was still getting the raw notes from the Urals operatives, two of whom had managed to get invited into the circle of the person Nadya had recommended Natasha to, so there was some hope on that front but it was still being played close to the vest for the time being. For all that the old HYDRA, especially in its US facilities, had had a modern corporate feel to it with vending machines and recycling bins and reminders to sign up for blood pressure readings, the new Russian HYDRA was a little more feudal and far less free with its information sharing and promoting a feeling of ownership in the endeavor.

"If it is them, especially if the Red Skull is Lukin, then he's got every reason to keep his mouth shut for now," she pointed out. "The one person who needs to get the message will have gotten it and there's a lot of danger in providing any kind of proof."

Clint could only grimace agreement. He'd been speaking aspirationally, she understood that.

But three days later, they did get something useful from the agents in Perm. Not a confession of involvement, but someone using Lukin's name in the present tense and interchangeably with the Red Skull.

Two days after that, the Duma member most vocal about de-escalating the conflict with China through concessions and increased transparency in governmental operations was assassinated with another car bomb. His wife and three-year-old daughter were killed in the blast as well. The Russians absolutely refused to let SHIELD or any other international agency anywhere near the investigation. The Chinese sent three more armored battalions to the border.

"I don't want a million men dying because Putin's a pain in the ass," Fury told the people around his conference table. "Especially because this mess is largely not of his doing, at least not in the sense that would let us sleep at night while doing nothing to stop it."

Natasha exchanged a look with James and then with Clint; they all knew what this meant. "Capture or kill?" she asked, since someone had to.

"I would like a sincere and meaningful attempt made at the former," Fury replied, meeting each of their eyes in turn and holding them. "I don't mean 'enough for plausible deniability,' I mean a legit prioritizing of taking him alive. You pulled it off with Schmidt, you can do it here. We solve a lot more problems if we can perp walk Lukin than if we show pictures of his corpse."

The rest of the meeting was establishing who would be needed to plan the mission and what sort of time frame they were working with, the latter being influenced by the likelihood of a Sino-Russian war starting. "Let's call it three weeks or when the first shot is fired, whichever comes first."

As much as they wanted to get started right away, until the analyst groups got their end together and coughed up the relevant background and environmental material, there could be no strategic or tactical planning done. Natasha and James went to the movies instead, then out to dinner, then back to Brooklyn. Clint went over to Steve's to watch the game and let him and Peggy know what was happening, so it was entirely his fault that James was blindsided the next day, when he went to go visit while Natasha went to the dentist.

 _Steve wants to go with us._ James had texted her while she'd been in the chair.

Natasha didn't bother texting back. "You told him no, right?" she asked as soon as James answered the call.

"Of course I told him no," James replied with asperity, although she could tell it was his frustration with Steve and not with her. "And Clint told him no yesterday and Peggy has told him no several times. He's being _Steve_ about it."

Which was generally a problem with no known cure except that here they did have the power to make sure that he wasn't going to Russia. They'd have to deal with his resentment for most of the next month, granted, but after the mission was over, so would be his anger. Steve was as stubborn as they came, but he didn't hold grudges.

It took them less than a week to realize that they had perhaps underestimated the difficulties of bearing Steve's ire for the duration.

"Get dressed and get over to Riverside Park," Tony ordered Natasha through the phone at five-thirty Tuesday morning. "And bring Barnes if he's there, I'll need the backup."

It took a second for the fog to clear -- she'd been sleeping -- before she parsed the words. "Do we need to call it in?"

Because sometimes shit happened where SHIELD was not the first to know about it.

"We _can't_ call it in," Tony replied, deeply bemused and just as deeply annoyed. "Because Steve Rogers is dead and therefore there's no reason for him to be running in the park before dawn."

"Oh, _shit_ ," she bit out, reaching over to push at James's shoulder, but all he did was grunt and roll away from her. "Do you know where he is?"

"I'm a couple thousand feet over his position," Tony replied and Natasha realized he was in the suit. "He's got the inducer, thankfully, and I put a tracker in it from the start. For this and other reasons."

"I'll call you back when we're on the move," Natasha said, ending the call and turning so she could kick James awake. "Get up. Steve's running in the park."

James blinked stupidly at her for a moment. "I'm not sure whether to start laughing or pack my pistol," he finally said, then threw the covers back and got out of bed.

They were on the street in five minutes and Natasha was already on the phone with Tony, who said that Steve was up by the Boat Basin Cafe and continuing north. "Do you think he's going as far north as 125th?" she asked. "We can't catch up to him on foot and we'll miss him at 96th if we try for a cab or the subway."

"I've got Clint on his mountain bike moving north to intercept," Tony replied. "What I'm hoping to do is have him turn Steve around and into you."

Natasha used hand gestures to tell James to head west, toward Riverside Park and not east toward West End Avenue or the subway. "Sounds like a plan," she agreed.

"Yeah, well, let's see if I'm better at corralling a rampaging Captain America than I was with the Living Laser," Tony said sourly.

He was. Clint, through Tony, reported when he'd caught up to Steve and then, five minutes later, that Steve was heading back downtown "not with me."

Natasha and James waited on a park bench that faced the Hudson. James was the one who pointed out that they had no idea what Steve looked like with the inducer and he could be any of the early-morning runners going by if Clint didn't stay close.

"Not to be all insensitive, but look for the angry black man," Tony replied. "There are only two settings on the inducer that won't draw attention doing a five minute mile and he chose the first one. I can turn him into the koala when he gets close if you need me to."

Natasha said not to bother, they'd position themselves well and count on Steve being the one to react to their presence. Steve might try to blow by them, but they'd know who he was. And, besides, they knew where he was going even if he got by them. Which he didn't.

"What the fuck were you thinking?" James asked in a barely-contained shout as Steve slowed to a jog as he approached. Clint rolled to a stop near Natasha, sensing as she had that this was a job for James, at least the first go-round.

Steve's features might be different, but the expressions were all his and Natasha knew the angry, stubborn look well.

"We had this conversation in 1943," James said in a quieter but no less furious voice because they were not alone and they were in a public place. "And clearly we are going to have it again. But not here and not with the same result. Let's go."

He started walking -- stalking -- toward the nearest uphill path that would lead them back to street level, expecting Steve to follow, which he did. Natasha had to jog to catch up, Clint walking his bike next to her. It took them more than twenty minutes to get back to Stark Tower, by which time Tony had returned, stripped off both the armor and whatever he'd worn under it, and was dressed in jeans and a Misfits t-shirt when he met them in the gym, which was where James had led all of them without a word. Tony raised an eyebrow at Natasha, who could only shrug in response because she had no idea what James was planning.

"Turn off the inducer and go get your shield," James ordered flatly. "You want to prove whatever it is you want to prove, you'll do it against me."

His left arm turned to metal in the blink of an eye and when Natasha looked at his face, she could see both the desperation of Bucky Barnes and the cold cruelty of the Winter Soldier.

Steve exhaled loudly as he shut off the inducer and returned to his familiar form. "Buck, I--"

"Do it!" James barked out, pointing to the door with his armored hand. "You want to prove that you should go to Perm? Go get your goddamned shield because I will break your jaw if I have to, Steve, to get it through your thick skull that you _aren't ready yet_. There's more at stake than your ego, so let's get that out of the way now."

Natasha didn't think that whatever this was about, Steve's ego was at the bottom of it. It was part of it, absolutely, possibly a big part. But something else was going on and she didn't know what it was and she wasn't sure if James did, either. He was unreadable to her here, angry and afraid, so while she thought he was poking Steve to get a useful response, she wasn't sure. This could just as well be about their war as Perm, for either of them.

"It's not about my ego," Steve insisted angrily, but he went to go get his shield anyway. They heard voices from outside the gym door and Natasha wasn't surprised to see Peggy in her robe with her walker appear a moment later. Clint ran over to bring her a chair and while Natasha couldn't hear them talking, she knew he was explaining what had gone on this morning already. Peggy's expression was stormy as she stared at James, willing him to turn to her and maybe talk to her, but he kept his back to her, to all of them, flexing his metal hand a few times before crossing over to the far corner and emptying his pockets on to the table -- knife, wallet, handkerchief -- and taking the pistol out from the holster in the small of his back.

Natasha went over to where Clint and Peggy were, since James was clearly in no mood to be talked to or talked down. Tony waited a few moments before he, too, followed.

"He's not going to actually break Steve, is he?" Tony asked, sounding like he genuinely didn't know the answer. "I know that's probably the only way we keep him from pulling this again tomorrow morning, but..."

Natasha had no answer. She didn't think James _wanted_ to hurt Steve, but he was also clearly goading him into something.

"It's a brothers thing," Clint said as the silence stretched. "They're not saying what we think they're saying."

"I think they're saying most of what we think they're saying," Tony protested, but weakly. Clint was the only one of them with a sibling.

Steve returned, unhappy but carrying his shield. He walked like a condemned man to the middle of the mats in the section set up for sparring. Natasha didn't get a good enough look at his face as he passed to see if the dominant expression was remorse or resignation.

James turned away from the table and started walking toward him, head down until he was actually on the mats and then he had eyes only for Steve.

"This isn't about my ego," Steve repeated as James stopped a few feet away.

"Of course it is," James replied wryly, the smile on his face not at all amused. "This is about you knowing best, about you forcing the outcome you want by whatever means necessary. I told you, Stevie, we've had this discussion before. I know how it goes. I am not going to let you win it again."

And then quicker than even Natasha could register the motion, James's left fist was flying toward's Steve's face. Steve barely got the shield up in time to block the blow with the top edge of it, a loud metal _clank_ resounding around the room.

"You wanna change your answer, Barton, before the blood starts splashing around?" Tony asked as Steve shifted into a defensive posture and James moved to attack again.

This was not a fair fight, which both men understood. James was a better hand-to-hand combatant than Steve even were Steve at peak conditioning, which would have evened the odds somewhat. Here, he was slow, entirely on defense for more reasons than he clearly did not want to be fighting at all, barely keeping up even as it was obvious to everyone that James was pulling his punches.

"What are you trying to prove?" James asked, not even winded. Steve was starting to sweat again, blinking it out of his eyes. "That you're in fighting form? You're not. You can barely keep up with my fist -- what are you going to do against a bullet?"

"That's not--" Steve broke off to defend himself again against another blow from James's metal arm, this one coupled with a leg sweep that put Steve on his ass.

"You can probably do it if you push hard enough," James continued, stepping back so Steve could get up again. Natasha had been sparring with James for months; she could see how easy he was going and she was sure Steve could see it, too, which added to the insult. "Force your way on to the roster. You are that good of a tactician and we both know that you are ruthless when you need to be. When you _want_ to be." He started another attack, then deked, leaving Steve open and exposed, but instead of kicking or punching Steve in the solar plexus, he just shoved him with an open hand, hard enough to make him stumble and fall back over because he'd already been off balance. "Are you willing to risk Natasha's life so you can get what you want? Risk Clint's? Risk _mine_?"

"I already _have_!" Steve cried out from the floor, pushing himself back up to standing with a little difficulty. "I'm the reason you were on that train. I'm the reason you have _that_!" He pointed at James's metal arm, hanging loosely at his side.

Next to Clint, Peggy made a noise that was less surprise than realization. She understood what the real story was now. Natasha could see the shape of it, but she wasn't as quick or as historied and didn't know exactly what it was yet.

"No you're not," James barked out. "You're the reason I didn't die on Zola's table in Italy. Everything else that happened, _everything else_ , is on me. _Me_. Don't you fucking take my choices away from me, Steve. I've had enough of that in my life. _I_ chose to join the Commandos. _I_ chose to follow you on to that train. And if you try to take the blame for the Winter Soldier, I will crack your skull back open and you can spend another year wearing diapers and eating applesauce. That's not on either of us."

"What's the blame version of a daisy chain?" Tony asked. Natasha didn't understand the expression, but Tony wasn't expecting an answer, so she didn't say anything.

"You want to go to Perm to repent for old sins," James went on in a less angry, quieter tone. "You don't have to. You got nothing you need to apologize for. We're even. We're always even because we never started keeping count."

Which was bullshit as far as James went, Natasha knew very well, but it was bullshit for both of them, clearly, so it balanced out. They would always think they owed the other, would always take the blame for what had been done on their behalf out of faith and friendship and family. Natasha didn't understand any of it, how could she? But Clint, the closest thing she had to a family, was watching James and Steve with knowing eyes and, if you knew where to look for it, wistfulness. He and Barney were not likely to ever be able to have their own version of this and she knew how much it bothered him still.

"Now why the hell are you really doing this?" James asked, all anger gone from his voice. He reached out and Steve didn't flinch as James took hold of his jaw and tilted his head up so that he was looking at James instead of at the floor. "Because this is Grade A stupid, even for you when you get one of your ideas."

Steve closed his eyes for a moment, but opened them again before he spoke. "I want to make sure you come home."

Natasha could see in James's face the exact moment he realized that Steve wasn't talking about James living or dying. It destroyed him. And then he pulled himself back together a heartbeat later and smiled, using his grip on Steve's jaw to pull him closer so that their foreheads touched, holding them there for a long moment before pulling back. "Where the hell else am I going to go?"

"Told ya," Clint said to Tony as he leaned over to help Peggy stand up. "You got any breakfast grub in this joint, Stark?"

Half an hour later, they were sitting in Tony's dining room as Marcel produced a neverending stack of lemon ricotta pancakes and a bottomless pot of strong coffee to go with the fresh fruit and sausages. Steve, freshly washed and still looking one part defiant to three parts embarrassed, was eating with an appetite that everyone else mocked as their choice of penalty for the early morning theatrics.

"Breakfast was fantastic," Clint told the table after they'd all finished eating and were working on their last cups of coffee. "But we are not fucking doing this tomorrow or the day after. Solid copy, Rogers?"

Steve nodded.

James would probably have liked to stick around Steve for a while -- Steve definitely would have liked it, Natasha thought -- but they were due at 44th Street for a mission planning meeting. So they went back to Natasha's place, showered and changed, and spent the next ten hours staring at a map of Perm and trying to build a network of faces and names of people who were known HYDRA operatives within Perm. It was an ongoing task, thankfully handled by other people, but Natasha (with her contacts) and especially James (with his experience) were occasionally called in to contribute. At the end of a long day, she kissed James on the cheek and told him to go to Steve's; they had talked about going to try a new Peruvian restaurant, but James's heart wasn't going to be in it and she was frankly exhausted. She spent the evening on the couch with a glass of sancerre and a novel, going to bed early because it was all going to start up again the next day, hopefully without the pre-dawn crisis.

The following week, Steve threw the shield for the first time since he'd been shot, in the expansive grounds surrounding a farmhouse in the middle of Pennsylvania. It ricocheted off two trees and came screaming back and Steve caught it easily and with a satisfied smile on his face.

"Really?" Clint asked with asperity. "You couldn't make it wobble or hit wrong or have to chase it down the first time out?"

The farmhouse was Tony's, bought through half a dozen shell companies by Pepper in the days after Tony had been rescued from Afghanistan. She'd thought he would need someplace quiet to recover, someplace away from the media and the temptations and demands of Stark Industries. "He did need it," Pepper told Natasha as she'd handed over the keys. "But events overtook us."

Tony had never actually been to the farmhouse, although Pepper had used it as a retreat a few times, as had Colonel Rhodes. Nobody knew about it, it had no connection to Stark Industries -- Pepper had used Tony's own money for it -- and there was plenty of space to make noise and run around. Which was more or less what Steve and James and Clint planned to do.

"And you," Pepper had added dryly. "Don't blame the boys for everything."

There'd been an attempt to turn it into a full Avengers social event, but that had not come to pass. Thor was home while Bruce had a web conference that weekend that he had been looking forward to for months and the farmhouse did not have a great signal. Which had more or less been Tony's excuse, since he had been living in his workshop almost since the assassination in Moscow trying to come up with something to defeat the explosive used to assassinate the Chinese ambassador because there was no way HYDRA didn't have more of that stuff. "He's the happy kind of obsessive," Steve had assured them. "It's a puzzle, not a penance."

They had conveniently neglected to tell Fury about it -- as they had Steve's little Hudson River escap(ad)e -- with the justification that if two Avengers and the Winter Soldier couldn't protect Captain America, there was a lot more wrong to the picture. Although Natasha wasn't alone in hoping that the topic of conversation never came up. They would be there three days, which even in their strange lives wasn't always enough time to get into really quality trouble.

It was fun, in no small part because Steve was functionally independent and away from Stark Tower, which Natasha suspected had started to feel like a gilded cage to him. It was a place that he'd had to be because of his infirmities and it was a place he couldn't leave without pomp and circumstance -- or subterfuge. Steve didn't resent Tony or Pepper, quite the opposite -- Natasha thought that those relationships had been strengthened during his time there. But that didn't change the fact that Steve had been in someone's care for the last fifteen months and he was ready to stand on his own once more and still he couldn't. 

It was three days of much more outdoor activity than Natasha would ever have chosen for a retreat on her own, but it worked. They ran and shot and sparred, but they also took walks and sat lazily and while Steve handled the main of the meal prep, everyone else contributed, too. Natasha got to spend time with Clint without it them having their passports in their pockets or their weapons out, the two of them getting surprisingly high-quality time washing and drying dishes after dinner. Natasha also got time with Steve, which had been rare. They'd spent a lot of time together since he'd returned to New York, but usually with other people around. One-on-one time had been almost an accident and Natasha missed it as intent. Once upon a time, she and Steve had explored the city together, going to a museum or a restaurant (or both), reacquainting themselves with old favorites and making new discoveries and learning about each other along the way. But those were activities Steve was currently barred from -- at least as they'd once enjoyed them -- and Natasha felt bad sometimes for not finding new ways to reinforce the old connections. 

But there they were, sitting on the porch shucking corn and shelling peas while James and Clint were somewhere on the property one-upping each other with rifles and targets. 

"Would you consider staying out here for a while?" Natasha asked, using her fingernail to slice open a pea pod and then running her thumb down the pod so that the peas fell in the bowl between her feet. 

It would be a fight with Fury, absolutely, but Steve had more leverage now. He couldn't do everything he'd once been able to do, but he might in the future and still, even before then, he didn't need anyone's help anymore. 

Steve made a complicated face. "A little while, maybe," he replied. "But when I said I wanted to be my own man again, I think I meant some place with more people."

They were miles from everything and everyone here; Pepper had chosen well and the financial crisis since she'd done so had only increased the isolation through foreclosure and lack of development. 

"Farmer's market's a little more authentic here," she teased, but she understood. He was no more a country mouse than she was, much to Clint's disappointment. 

"After a couple of years among the hipsters, I'm comfortable with the poseurs," he replied with a mischievous smile, reaching for another ear of corn. "At least they eat well."

"I'll tell James to start packing," Natasha said with a smile.

"Nah," Steve scoffed. "Even if Fury was prepared to give me my freedom, I wouldn't be going back. First, Buck needs it more than I do right now and it's probably got more of his stuff in it than mine by this point."

As Steve had improved, the rest of his art supplies and his cookbooks and kitchen supplies had joined the books and clothes and knickknacks in his Stark Tower apartment. What was left was the furniture -- which Steve hadn't chosen in the first place -- and some of the memorabilia and photos that Steve had insisted he hadn't wanted but only because he wanted James to have them, to see them and remember that life. 

"You are assuming that James has done anything like buy stuff," Natasha told him ruefully. Affectionately, but ruefully. "It looks like your place, just more spare."

"Blank canvas," Steve assured. "He'll fill it in once he figures out what he likes. Took me time, too, but I caught up."

Natasha hadn't spent an awful lot of time at Steve's in the earliest days of their association to have seen the progress as it had occurred. She'd been out in the field a lot, as often as she could, because she'd wanted to get away from the Avengers and what they represented: a new world order where she wasn't nearly as relevant, as _useful_ as she had once been. Against the Chitauri, she'd been an acrobat with a pair of pistols up against something so far out of her league there'd been no comparable. She hadn't been scared of them, but she'd been terrified of what they meant and what might happen to her if this was the future of global threats. What could she be if the Black Widow was no longer an essential player in the global political game? So she went about proving herself still necessary and needed, taking assignment after assignment so she could be in control of things again. So she could matter. What down time she'd had, she'd spent with Clint, who'd only accepted so much help as he'd recovered from his own experiences and had largely sought the same recovery methods as she had -- work and more work. 

"I don't think I've exactly been the best role model there," she admitted wryly, dropping another empty pea pod in the bowl she was using as a garbage. Steve had spent a good deal of time working on that with her, although she hadn't ever considered herself to be his project. She didn't think he considered her his project, either. Steve respected his friends as they were, no matter what he might wish for them in the privacy of his own heart. 

"You've been good for him in other ways," he assured. From anyone else, that would have been a wink-wink-nudge-nudge comment about sex, but Steve, who was not nearly as pure of thought as popular legend held, meant it entirely in its broader sense. 

"I have," she agreed with a smile because false modesty did not suit her and James, for all that she loved him, had been and would be a lot of otherwise uncredited work. 

They continued their tasks in silence, Steve finishing with the corn and moving on to carrots, before she spoke again. "What was the second reason?" 

"Hm?" 

"You said that the first reason you weren't going to evict James was that he needed the anchor more than you did," she prompted. "What was the second?"

Steve smiled, a bit shyly she thought, and a bit sadly and she realized before he started speaking that this wasn't going to be about fresh starts and picking out his own couch this time. 

"It's not good for Peggy," Steve said. "Even with all new furniture -- and it would all have to be new, she couldn't ever use the kitchen stools and the couch is too deep for her now -- there would have to be too much work done on the place to make it for two people. Or more, if we have to bring someone in later on."

Natasha was pretty sure this was the first time Steve had spoken of his plans out loud to anyone but Peggy -- if he'd even said anything to her yet. James would have said something if Steve had told him, she thought. It wasn't the kind of thing Steve would ask for a vow of silence for and James, at least the sentimentalist hiding deep in a corner of his heart where neither war nor Zola nor Schmidt nor Department X could reach, would have been happy to share it. 

"What does Peggy think?" Natasha asked, since this would not have been the first time Steve had tried to make plans for Peggy only to be firmly shot down upon actual presentation. But all of those plans had been Before. Before Steve's shooting, before Peggy had packed up her own life to be with Steve, before the consequences of her advanced age had meant a real decline instead of being an occasional annoyance, before the two of them had spent more than a year _together_ in a way that age and ego and time had never allowed. 

Steve smiled and she realized he'd been worried about her response. "There are plenty of one-story houses inside city limits. She'd like a backyard."

The isolation of Wyoming had been trying for Peggy at times, Natasha knew, but she'd enjoyed the peace of it. 

"When are you going to tell James that you and Peggy are going to be shacking up in sin?" she asked lightly so that it wouldn't come off as chiding. She knew it would be soon because he'd want to tell James himself and he'd never ask her to keep a secret from him. 

"Who said anything about living in sin?" Steve asked in return, raising his chin in challenge even though Natasha could see the amusement in his eyes. "I'm a gentleman and I've asked for the lady's hand."

Which shocked Natasha but did not really surprise her, although something must have shown on her face because Steve reacted, so she shook her head. "And what did the lady say?" 

"The lady said she'd think about it," Steve admitted with a self-deprecating grin, but it quickly melted into something far sadder. "She's still worried about me, about holding me back. I don't know what I else I can tell her to get her to believe that she isn't. That I'm exactly where I want to be when it comes to her."

Once upon a time, that had been exactly the problem, at least as far as Peggy saw it. She still saw it that way, but had difficult relationship with her ability to change Steve's mind. As they all did.

"I think the fact that she's agreeing to let you stick around speaks volumes," Natasha said, dropping the last empty pea pod into the discard bowl. 

Steve smiled at her and offered her a peeled carrot, which she accepted, biting off the tip and spitting it into the discard bowl. She ate the rest as Steve finished the carrots and moved on to apples. Clint had been the one to find the sign for the u-pick apple orchard -- he'd brought his mountain bike because he hated running for exercise -- and they'd gone yesterday afternoon, coming back with far too many apples but having thoroughly enjoyed the experience. The only one who'd ever picked fruit before had been Clint and he'd joked that he'd never done it legally, only pilfering after dark during his circus days or on the run in the Middle East. So he was the expert, they'd told him, and he should share his wisdom. "The only wisdom I have to share is that there are consequences to living on fresh figs," had been the reply. 

James and Clint returned before Steve had finished his pile of peeled apples (which wasn't actually a pile, since all of his peeled produce was going into a bucket of water), still giving each other grief for their shooting -- nevermind that their worst shots were still impossible shots for most everyone else -- and then demanding dinner, which got half-peeled apple tossed at them. 

Tuesday morning, however, it was back to work at 44th Street, the 'family tree' of HYDRA-in-Perm having grown in their absence and a test-run with a quinjet in Utah having given them a good idea of how close they could land to a house or a populated area without detection, since using an actual airstrip within Perm was impossible. They were treating the entire city as hostile and monitored, which was overstating the case, but probably not by much and they didn't have the time to make a finer distinction. Perm was held by two opposing forces -- the Russian government and HYDRA -- and neither wanted SHIELD there, although the former was capable of looking the other way in a warped case of 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend.'

Lukin's compound was in the sparsely populated northern part of the Leninsky district, on the right bank of the Kama but not near the river. It was surrounded by forest and had exactly one road that led to it. Repeated satellite overflights and local intelligence reports, both eyeball accounts and second-hand, indicated that the security was reflective of the position HYDRA held in the region: enough to be taken seriously, but nothing like what they'd seen at Minyar. Lukin was not worried about the Russian Army storming the place, not with such limited access routes and an entirely sympathetic population. 

"The population of Minyar was sympathetic, too, and they still had Triple-A," Clint pointed out during that particular briefing. 

There was no artillery at the compound, anti-aircraft or ground-oriented, they were assured. Clint exchanged a look with Natasha to indicate how much faith he placed in that promise and she could do nothing but shrug in return. 

In the evening, with Fury's permission, they took copies of the planning material over to Steve's, since he was their best tactical and strategic planner. Steve enjoyed the involvement, enjoyed putting in the work during the day to assess and improve upon what he'd been given, and Natasha wasn't the only one who'd suggested that they find a way for Steve to at least view the briefings in real time, remotely by necessity. The camera that was set up in the rear of the team room was for Fury, the analysts were told. James usually was the one who had to take credit for Steve's suggestions and improvements, mostly because the credulity of what the Winter Soldier was capable of was essentially boundless and his role in the raid at the Powell SHIELD base was known. (Clint, whose role in the attack on the Helicarrier while under Loki's control could possibly have stood as his credentials, had been quieter than usual and Natasha was grateful that no analyst was stupid enough to bring that up because Clint tended not to roll with those punches the way James had learned to.) James understood the power of myth and was not shy about using it within SHIELD as he did during his missions, but in this case he was amused because the myth that was being drawn upon was not just that of the Winter Soldier, but also that of James Barnes, team sergeant of the Howling Commandos. "They don't get that my job there was mostly making sure everyone survived Steve's crazy ideas," he'd said with a shake of his head, then held up his left arm. "A task at which I proved only partially successful."

There'd initially been some concern -- at least among those who'd known about Steve's pre-dawn run -- that the increased involvement in the Perm mission would either upset Steve or give him new energy to try some other way to prove his fitness for it. But that turned out not to be the case. The demons that had been driving that urge had been exorcised on the mats in the gym and Steve had never really been fueled by vengeance. Which was not to say that he wasn't in possession of the desire, just that he was generally the master of it. 

"Of course I want to see Lukin pay," he admitted during a lunch at his apartment. It was just the two of them and Peggy, James staying at 44th Street to work on something with Zubov and Clint being temporarily dispatched to Algeria to handle a matter that had nothing to do with HYDRA. "Not as much for shooting me, but for what he did to the people I care about and to everyone else who has been hurt by his quest for power. I won't shed a tear if he dies and I won't think less of whoever kills him. And if he ends up rotting in a jail cell like Schmidt, that's okay, too, because I think powerlessness, for people like him, is crueler than death. I want to see that happen, but I don't need to _see_ it. I trust you guys to get it done."

Even if Steve had come to terms, there was still a discussion about who exactly was going on the mission. SHIELD's Direct Action Service had teams that were regional specialists and thus there were two teams that were populated by Russian and Slavic languages speakers, but there was also a list of teams that could and couldn't work with the Avengers and the Eastern European teams were both on the latter list. Even though this wasn't a proper Avengers mission, all of the compatibility problems couldn't be laid at Tony or Thor or Bruce's feet. There'd already been tension with Malcolm, the team leader initially assigned to the mission, and Clint had suggested bringing in Corrales instead because his team was the most used to dealing with them and they weren't planning on _chatting_ with Lukin's people, so the language handicap wouldn't matter and the fact that Corrales had probably led more HYDRA raids than Malcolm and Possler combined did. Fury hadn't said no, but Malcolm's team was still assigned to the mission for now and thus Malcolm was still pushing for more inclusion in all phases of the operation while also accusing them of trying to get his men killed at every opportunity. 

When two of Malcolm's people were seriously injured in a hang fire accident on the range, Fury called Clint, Natasha, and James into his office. "So help me God, if any of you are responsible for this, I will exact a suitable and lasting punishment."

They hadn't done anything. The investigation quickly showed that every cartridge in Bellavia's clip was defective in a fashion that could only have happened during production and turned out not to be the only rifle ammo affected, so this was a canary in a coal mine accident, not sabotage. 

Corrales still warily asked if they'd blown off Bellavia's hand to get him on board, but he was joking. He wasn't joking about asking for a Russian cheat-sheet for his men, both phrases they would use ("drop your weapons" and "lie down on the ground") and phrases they were likely to hear, "including any warnings of impending self-detonation."

The mission planning moved smoothly more because of the influx of fresh intelligence, including photos of the compound's perimeter security station and a whole lot of pilfered FSB material, than because of the change in support teams, although that didn't hurt. Which was not to say that having someone so familiar with their methods -- and their past hijinks -- was without its own complications. 

Corrales had been kidding around when he asked what the secret mission was this time -- he'd helped them sneak into Latveria the other year -- and it had taken all of Natasha's professional training to not react to the question. She justified her denial to herself by saying that technically, there wasn't any secret mission here beyond apprehending Lukin, but she still disliked lying by omission to a man she genuinely respected. 

It was Clint's turn a few mornings later after James had finished explaining Steve's latest suggestions. "It's a very Captain Rogers kind of move," Corrales said approvingly, not even looking up from where he was taking notes. "Appropriate considering we're going after the guy who killed him."

"It's a Commandos thing," Clint replied blandly, since some kind of response was required. 

"He's not going to figure it out, is he?" James asked over a dinner later that night. 

"No killing Corrales to keep our secrets," Tony warned. He'd been pried out of the workshop by Pepper with JARVIS's and Natasha's help because she hadn't been in New York in more than a week and would be leaving again in a few days and didn't consider sitting by Tony's workbench to be quality relationship time. "We _like_ Corrales."

"Says the guy who shot his team twice with the barf cannon," Clint retorted. James looked over at Natasha as everyone else laughed, she indicated that she'd explain later. 

"We like him because he's forgiving," Tony replied loftily. 

"Corrales is more likely to accept that you learned something from Steve than that the long-dead Captain America is the Wizard of Oz secretly doing our mission planning," Clint assured, reaching out to serve himself more stuffed tomatoes. 

"What about Steve learning something from me?" James asked with mock outrage.

"I'm the man with the plan," Steve explained with equally mock gentleness as he patted James's hand. James responded by trying to drive his fork into Steve's hand until he pulled it away. 

While they'd been sitting in offices on 44th Street figuring out what they wanted to do, a SHIELD team had been building a mockup of Lukin's compound in New Mexico, in a corner of Gila National Forest that had terrain similar to that of Perm. The compound wasn't a HYDRA base as they'd gotten used to them, was more like a warlord's estate in any number of countries with housing for the underlings and a presumed weapons and vehicle stash, but with the main machinery of business offsite. This was not the new HYDRA world headquarters, was in fact the ghost of some Party bigwig's dacha, heavily modified since then but still retaining a lot of the elements that made it identifiable as someone's vacation home. Or, perhaps more accurately, someone's idea of a vacation home. There was the main house, two stories, no sign of a basement, a barn that had been converted into a barracks, and a stable-turned-garage. There was a stream at the rear of the compound, which only had the kind of fencing that would be sufficient to keep out local fauna and not present any problem to a determined adult human, but local observation said that there were motion detectors of the kind that James had defeated on their infiltration into Latveria and for which he'd provided lessons to all parties because they had examples, which were in use for the exercise. There were no perimeter guard patrols, but there was a security station at a strategic location near the entrance and response time from that point was very fast. 

All of the agents playing Lukin and his people were Russian speakers, to maintain the possibility of a foul-up caused by language barriers, and Possler's team and part of Malcolm's were the key players. Malcolm himself got to be Lukin, which made everyone joke that the likelihood of it being 'capture' and not 'kill' were very low. They went through three test runs in three days, spending each evening going over what worked and what didn't while the carpenters re-build the walls that had been blown up or shot to pieces during the drills. Natasha didn't have a lot to contribute to the planning refinements, just as she'd been somewhat limited in her contributions during the design. This wasn't her area of expertise; if she was going to get into a heavily fortified compound, she was going to either be invited in under false pretenses or go over a wall herself like a cat burglar. Her role in the assault was to be part of the advance scout team, let the others do the heavy lifting as required, and try to acquire as much documentation and other intelligence as circumstances allowed. She'd shown no offense at being excluded from the main battle plans and nobody had offered her any apologies or excuses. 

They were only going to be back in New York for two days before they left again. They would be staging in northern Kazakhstan to minimize the actual flight time over Russian territory after mission launch; the camp was isolated but well-provisioned and well-defended, a holdover from the preparations for the Minyar assault years ago. 

Natasha treated her time off as she would any time off before a mission -- she relaxed, she treated herself well without over-indulging, she made sure everything was prepared in case she never got to come home. She spent most of the time with James, but not all of it -- they both needed a little time to themselves. They spent the last evening at Tony's, because he insisted that it was a pre-Russian Invasion tradition, and none of them felt like pointing out that once was hardly a tradition because they knew what he really meant. Everyone was there, including Bruce, who'd come in to town while they'd been in New Mexico to do one of his periodic tours of duty in the labs at 44th Street. "I called Jane Foster, but Thor's still not back from whatever he got dragged off to do. I think she's starting to get a little worried," Tony explained. 

"You should have invited her," Pepper told him.

"I did!" Tony insisted. "She was at a delicate point in her experiment. I told her I understood and to make sure she took a shower this week."

Marcel, as always, thrilled to having a larger audience than usual and dinner was sublime from the ossetra caviar appetizers and squash velouté to the braised beef cheek main course and a cheese course complemented by apple preserves made from the apples they'd brought back from Pennsylvania. It was a warm evening, so they went outside to the deck for coffee and dessert. They hadn't talked about the mission at all during dinner, but away from the table and with full bellies and a stunning view of Manhattan at night, they were freer with their choices. Tony told them about the 'war room' he was setting up so that all of the ones left behind could watch, although Bruce wasn't sure he would and Pepper said that she would not even if she could have. She was going to be in transit for part of the mission running time, on a flight to Ghana to open a corporate office, Stark Industries' new African hub.

"It looks too much like a video game," Pepper explained, waving away Tony's pointing out that he could send the feed to her jet. "And then I hear voices that I recognize belonging to people that I care about and I _can't_. I can't live through that vicariously, safe and terrified. I would do it if it helped, if my being there meant something to someone--" she looked over at Tony and Natasha could see in her face her fear every time Tony put on the armor for combat, "--but in this case, it wouldn't. None of you would be helped or soothed knowing I was watching. You won't be thinking about it at all."

Which was the truth, for better or for worse. 

Thirty-nine hours later, they were sitting in a pre-fab building in Kazakhstan going through the final mission briefing. The latest satellite feeds had indicated significantly more traffic coming in and out of the compound, which was interesting and probably relevant -- intercepted chatter from the Russians said that they thought another attack was imminent -- but so long as they were leaving and not increasing the manpower inside the walls, it wasn't enough to force a change in plans. They were going in at night, when the population of the compound, estimated at twenty people, would be at its lowest. 

Weather at mission time was deteriorating, but the quinjet pilots were confident that they would be able to launch and land without difficulty and assured them that they would be able to hide in the air even if the winds stayed up because they'd be above it. The flight to Perm was still bumpy and nerve-wracking. The quinjets put them down in a clearing a kilometer from the western border of the compound, which meant a kilometer of trudging through dense, uneven, rocky forest with only a quarter moon amplified by night vision goggles to see by. Natasha, one of three serving as vanguard, understood the absolute necessity of it, but still she hated it, hated the lack of depth perception, the way she couldn't avoid getting smacked in the face or goggles by branches, the way she rolled her ankle because of baseball-sized rocks she couldn't see, all of it. But then it was done and they were at the picket fence and then Prideaux and Casimir were working in tandem to trick the motion sensors into thinking that all was quiet on the western front. 

Once the motion detectors were defeated, they had another twenty meters of forest to get through until they hit the clearing that was the compound. The barracks were to their left and the garage to the right and the right side of the house was directly in front of them. They didn't have anything on the interior of the house, which meant going room to room and then hoping that there hadn't been heavy modifications inside, such as the panic room that had saved Peggy and Steve from Belova. Natasha moved alongside the lee of the garage so she could see the entirety of the compound and there was nothing happening, that the extra guests had all gone, so she keyed her mic twice to signal to the rest of the team that it was safe to proceed as Casimir and Prideaux went to the pair of double-door entrances to the barn/barracks and secured them with simple bicycle u-locks. During the planning, it had caused no end of hilarity that HYDRA could be defeated by spending $50 at Walmart. 

When everyone arrived, they split into three pre-sorted teams, with James, Clint and Natasha attached to one each so that there would be a Russian speaker with each group. Natasha was with Corrales's group as they made their way to the rear entrance of the house and Clint's team took the front entrance. James's unit was going to secure the guard station and would serve as a reserve if (when) things got chaotic. Back at the start, Natasha had asked why she was going in while James was staying outside, not because she resented the danger, but because it seemed prudent to put the best people at the work to the task. The answer had been blunt: James was the most efficient killer on the team, so he was the reserve because if he was needed, they would need that efficiency to salvage whatever they could. 

The back door faced the front door, with the entry room in between. The door wasn't locked and they opened it quickly -- creaky hinges could be defeated by speed -- without letting it hit anything. They encountered two guards, both neutralized with silenced pistols before they could raise an alarm. With both teams inside, Clint, who held overall mission command, indicated that his team would take the upstairs while Corrales (and Natasha) would secure the first floor. With HYDRA's love of basement complexes well known, they went room to room checking every single door expecting one to lead to something more, but nothing did. They found one more man at a bank of computers and telephones, presumably on overnight communications duty, and two sleeping in a rear bedroom, and all were taken care of before they knew what was happening. With the floor secure, and no noises coming from upstairs indicating trouble -- there were no noises at all -- Corrales signaled Clint and James, stationed men to watch for reinforcements, and took everyone else but Natasha upstairs to support Clint's team, since they had more rooms to cover and, probably more of those rooms would be occupied. The house was not a home; Lukin's wife and children were in Andorra, their new home, and the place did not even have the comforting accretions of a unit in residence the way the agents in Wyoming had made their duty station domestic.

Natasha stayed downstairs to work on the secondary objective, which was data acquisition. She went back to the room where they'd found the communications setup and, moving aside the corpse of the man who'd attended them, stuck flash drives in the computers -- self-installing programs would take care of the data-raiding for them by uploading everything to SHIELD -- and started looking for portable hard drives and flash drives and CD-ROMs or whatever else could be packed up and taken. She worked quickly but quietly, sacrificing speed for noise discipline. She put what she found in her backpack, leaving the flash drives, which would destroy themselves when they were done, to do their work. They'd found Lukin's office and that was her next stop, pulling out a flash drive for his laptop and then leaving the program to run while she went through file cabinets and desk drawers, skimming folder names and loose papers to find anything of interest and photographing whatever wasn't obviously useless, which excluded practically nothing because once upon a time, they'd cut HYDRA off at the knees by means of shipping labels and Home Depot receipts. 

When Zucker came in to check on her, she got him started on photographing the contents of the last drawer of the file cabinet while she moved on to the garbage can. They were both still there when Clint uttered the magic words over their radios: "Beetlejuice is secure."

Tony had been the one to suggest the codename for Lukin and Clint had thought it hilarious, so even when everyone else saw the movie and thought it a horrible choice, Clint used his command authority to make sure it stuck. 

Natasha confirmed that she'd heard and James, still outside with his team confirmed as well. Clint radioed that they were bringing him downstairs and Natasha urged Zucker to work faster, since they only had until it was time to take Lukin out of the house to finish. And then she pulled out her pry bar to get into the one locked drawer in the desk, prepared to empty the entire contents into her backpack. 

The only thing in it was a purple velvet bag, inside of which was the Red Skull mask. "Bullseye," she muttered. 

"Don't think he works in Russia, ma'am," Zucker replied cheekily. 

They heard footsteps on the stairs, a herd of them as everyone was moving without concern of discovery, and Natasha took a look around the room to see if she'd missed anything. She'd given it a proper search before she'd started photographing, so there wasn't. "Let's go," she told Zucker, who was on the last pages of his drawer. 

Lukin, looking rumpled and in his pajamas but proud and unaffected by his situation, which was 'surrounded by men who wanted to kill him,' was not surprised to see Natasha and called her several disgusting names in greeting. Clint slapped his face. "Watch it," he warned Lukin, sticking a finger in his face. "We don't need you intact. We don't even need you _alive_. You are the man who killed Captain America and all of these gentlemen worked with and respected that man, so all they really need is a pretext. I will translate every word out of your mouth if it will give them one."

Lukin sneered. "None of you will shoot a prisoner."

"But I will," James said, stepping out of the shadows of the doorway to the dining room. Natasha hadn't even known he was there and startled a little, but Lukin took an involuntary step back, only to be pushed forward again by Ramos and Pahk. "Got any more magic words for me, _Boss_?" 

He'd put a Russian accent on the last word and wore a cruel smile on his face. This was the Winter Soldier and Natasha could allow herself the satisfaction of watching how Lukin lost his insouciance when that cold gaze was fixed on him not as lord and master, but as target. He was the one who'd lost his grip on the tiger's tail and he knew it. Part of Natasha enjoyed his fear, his very legitimate fear, that James would kill him where he stood. But mostly, she was afraid for James, about what doing this -- facing Lukin, whether or not he killed him -- would do to him. This was why Steve had wanted to go, for this moment, to make sure that James was able to come away from it intact. James had promised him that he would, but Natasha wasn't sure if that was a promise he could keep now that it was here. 

James pulled out his .45 and had it at Lukin's forehead before anyone could register that he'd drawn. 

Natasha looked over at Clint; both of them were too far away to do anything, as was Corrales, who was watching Natasha for a cue. She shook her head minutely. They had to show James a little faith that everything he'd been through in the last year-plus since he'd come in from the cold mattered, that he'd changed enough to not want to give up what he'd gotten back for the sake of revenge. He knew that Steve would welcome him back even if he pulled the trigger, that Natasha would not end their relationship if he killed Lukin, but it would change things and not for the better. She had to hope that that mattered to him more than his pain and his anger. 

"I could splatter your brains across everyone's face and they'd only complain about the mess," James told Lukin in Russian, pushing the muzzle of the gun harder against Lukin's forehead so that it pushed his head back. "They know what you did to me, what you did to Steve Rogers, what you tried to do to Peggy Carter. We invaded a country to get to you. So that _I_ could get to you. They won't even have to say you were shot trying to escape. They'll leave you headless in your pajamas, handcuffs on, lying in a pool of piss and blood for your minions to find."

He stood like that, his face so close to Lukin's, his expression devoid of any and all emotion, even anger. And then he holstered the gun and took a step back and the Winter Soldier disappeared, leaving Sergeant James Barnes wearing his clothes and Natasha to exhale and an indent in the skin of Lukin's forehead.

"But that would be too easy for you," he continued in English. "So you'll get to rot in a prison cell like Schmidt, your every move decided by someone else after having that privilege for far too long. The Chinese will definitely want you. I think Baron von Doom would enjoy your company again, too. He might even reopen Paklena Kapuja just to keep you close." 

Paklena Kapuja was an infamous prison from the Communist era, the Latverian version of Lubyanka. The Dooms had shut it down when they'd been brought back in the early '90s. There was no chance of Lukin ending up there, however appropriate it might be. Or China. Lukin, were he thinking clearly, would realize that, but he wasn't, still rattled by seeing the Winter Soldier. 

Clint drew Natasha's attention and indicated via gesture that the quinjets were late, caught up in the weather like they'd promised they wouldn't be. They were supposed to land in the compound's courtyard, which meant that the team and Lukin could wait in the house, but it also meant that they were sitting ducks. They could have triggered a silent alarm, or there could have been phone or email communication that should have been transmitted or received or anyone in the barracks could have woken up and realized that they were locked in and called in reinforcements or tried to escape. 

"Put him in a chair and tie him to it," Clint ordered, gesturing for Corrales and James to come to him so he could tell them about the delay, leaving Natasha to supervise the prisoner. 

Lukin regained a little bit of his brio with James out of sight, sitting regally as he was tied at arm and ankle to a dining room chair. Natasha understood it, both as theater and as actual confidence. Lukin was a master spy and while he'd been genuinely rattled by seeing James, he was no amateur and had recovered. He was confident that he could outfox Fury -- for that was who he would be dealing with -- and he had a Soviet-era disdain for the softness of American captivity. Prison life would not be hard on him, not compared to what would have happened in a place like Lubyanka or Paklena Kapuja, and he assumed that his greatest physical threat would be getting fat on the high-starch diet. He could leverage what he knew -- and he knew a lot -- into comforts and privileges and he could amuse himself toying with his interrogators and playing games with SHIELD. He might not even have to give up his external power -- he had gotten to Schmidt, after all, and his network could get to him, allowing him to continue to be a world player from Supermax or wherever he was put for the crime of orchestrating the murder of Captain America. 

"You're assuming too much," Natasha told him in Russian and he looked at her, curious and disdainful of what she might presume to read of his thoughts. But his thoughts weren't terribly unique or hard to read. "You're already dead. We don't need to parade you down the courthouse steps for the masses. They've already celebrated your death. We can just throw you in a hole and take you out when we feel like it. There isn't going to be a trial and you won't be getting your one hour a day of sunshine and three square meals. This is a most extraordinary rendition and if the Americans have learned anything, they've learned how to do that. Fury will take what he wants from you and then give you to whoever will make you hurt the most and he'll do it with clean hands and a joyous heart."

Lukin snorted dismissively, but she could see that her words had gotten through. The arrogance was a bit more theatrical and a bit less genuine now. She smiled as she kept in motion around the entry room, since Lukin wanted her in his line of sight. He didn't think she was going to do anything to him, which was both foolish and correct, but he clearly felt better when he could see where she was, so she went to where he couldn't, standing behind his chair and then moving again so he'd have to guess whether she'd be appearing on his left or right. It was seemingly petty, but she knew from experience -- both having done this before and having been the one in the chair -- that it had a reasonably good cumulative effect, like Chinese water torture, a low-grade unsettled feeling that could be used for more important things. Lukin would know it too, but that was the beauty of it: it didn't matter. 

"They say ten minutes, but it could be twenty," Clint told her on one of her passes. "Thunderstorm's pushing through. It'll move quickly, they said, but it's bad fucking timing." 

Natasha nodded. "Do we stay here or go back to the secondary extraction point?" Which was the clearing where they'd been dropped off. 

Clint made a face to indicate that both choices were bad. "We should go," he said. "If we're gonna have to trip and tumble our way through the forest again, I'd rather do it before anyone's shooting at us and Barnes is getting really itchy being here any longer than we have to. Not that I'm happy with it, but he's really rabbity. I don't think anyone's gonna firebomb this place with Lukin inside, but..."

"But this is still HYDRA and dying for the cause is good for everyone, whether they want to or not," Natasha finished. "Let's go, then."

Explaining the plan to everyone was quick; they would go back the way they came, Pahk and Ramos would take Lukin, and everyone would watch their surroundings. Clint went over to Lukin, who was now being cut free and forced to standing, but he directed his words at Pahk and Ramos. "Gag him. If he tries anything, and I mean _anything_ , you shoot him in the head and leave his corpse to rot. We don't need him alive."

Then he looked at Lukin. "Do you understand just how little I value your safety?" he asked. Lukin nodded once.

They left the house through the back door, which put them a little closer to the path back through the woods, but also left them more exposed to the barn-turned-barracks. The compound had floodlights, but they'd been off when they arrived, so unless the barracks population had night vision -- possible, they didn't know where the armory was -- the advantage of being able to see in the dark stayed with the SHIELD team. A quarter moon, even high in a starry sky, didn't do much. There were two windows in the barn, both high up off of the ground, and Casimir, walking point with Prideaux and Natasha, quietly announced over the radio that it was open where it had once been closed. 

"Nothing--wait, there's a head poking out," Casimir reported. 

"Blow it off," Clint ordered. "Keep them ducking."

Casimir took a knee and squeezed off a round almost in one motion. The shot was loud in the quiet of the dark and they started moving faster, Casimir staying in position to watch the window as the others passed him by, tapping him on the shoulder as they did, running to the side of the stable and pressing against the wall. Once they were all present and accounted for by the stable, Natasha, Casimir and Prideaux began the process again, this time from the stable to the treeline. It would be about twenty-five meters, all but the first few over open ground.

They moved slowly, looking right, left, and up as they scouted the terrain and it was all clear until Natasha, with her eyes on the barn's rear window, saw motion and then heard a thump and then a cry of pain. 

"Jumper out of the back window," Natasha said quietly. "Looks like he broke his leg on impact."

"See 'im," Prideaux acknowledged.

The window was probably a good seven meters off the ground, too far to drop if you didn't know what you were doing. The jumper was struggling to his feet and Prideaux put a bullet in his chest as soon as it was in view. 

"Another looky-loo," Natasha said calmly, raising her rifle sight to her goggles -- a miserable way to get a look -- and squeezing off a three-round burst because she didn't trust her accuracy under the circumstances. But she made her target and he slumped where she'd shot him, half-in and half-out of the window.

"Corbette, can you get a grenade in that window?" Corrales asked from somewhere behind her. Closer than she'd thought, though, because she could hear the movement as Corbette jogged up.

"Only one way to find out, sir," Corbette replied and Natasha heard the sound of a mortar round being loaded into the launcher. She didn't bother to watch the shot, keeping her eyes on the rest of her sector, since it would either white out the goggles or blow her regular night vision if she looked at it with naked eyes. She could still see the explosion out of the corner of her vision and heard shouting. 

"They're bailing out the front," someone reported. 

"Get going," Clint ordered. "Full tilt to the trees. Go, go, go!"

Natasha and Prideaux started moving again, running into and through the open ground with bootsteps behind them until they hit the trees. There were a couple of shouts of "Ow! Fuck!" as the barn occupants started to fire on them again and they had to stop and shoot back. The SHIELD team was all wearing armor -- Natasha and James had kept their costumes, but Clint had chosen to wear a kevlar DAS tactical uniform -- which meant that the bullets were far more likely to bruise than bleed so long as they didn't hit flesh. If Lukin got hit, he was out of luck, but they'd already made it clear that they didn't care by not bringing an extra armored vest for him.

The firefight was fairly brief as far as those things went. Once in the safety of the shadow of the trees, they did a quick pat-down of their battle-buddies to check for wounds because adrenaline could mask even serious injuries. James ran his hands over her with professional speed, not even a single reassuring touch. She did the same for him, up until she got to his head, when she took a hold of his jaw so that she could look in his eyes and see what -- who -- was there. The answer was complicated, but satisfactory.

"Mister Barnes?" Pincus, Corrales's XO was right next to them. "Commander, turn around."

Corrales had been reaching for his Camelbak but froze, not moving until James came up to him and raised his goggles and looked where Pincus's flashlight was pointing. Natasha, on the other side of the men, raised her goggles as well. Clint had been moving along the line making sure everyone was okay and making sure no one was coming after them, but now he jogged up to them, looking at Natasha through his goggles. She shook her head slightly, she didn't know.

"How bad is it?" Corrales asked, voice steady, as James took Pincus's flashlight and shone it around Corrales's back and shoulders. "I thought the armor got all of it, but it was up by the collar and something splashed and it was probably me."

Even from the angle at which she was standing, Corrales had turned enough that Natasha could see clearly and felt nauseated at the realization. 

James sucked on his teeth loudly. "The good news is that you're not bleeding," he said. "The bad news is that you weren't shot with a regular round."

The nanite-laced explosive used to assassinate the Chinese ambassador had been bright pink, which was why Tony kept calling it bubble gum. It was the same bright pink that covered Corrales from his helmet to the middle of his back.

There was a wave of grief and shock through the team after James told Corrales -- and Clint -- what had happened. Natasha looked over at Lukin and, even gagged, she could see his satisfaction. It reminded her of Loki on the day Thor had taken him back to Asgard.

"Barton, get everyone the hell out of here. I don't know what the blast radius is and we don't know how fast any of them can get to the detonator," James said calmly as he gestured for Corrales to take off his helmet. "If it's just on the gear, we'll be right behind you."

If it was on Corrales's skin, there was no hope, he didn't have to say. Natasha moved over to James's side, taking the flashlight so that he had both hands free to work. 

There were protests -- nobody wanted to leave Corrales to die alone, there was no guarantee there was anyone left alive to find the detonator -- but Corrales shut them all up with a single "Hey!" as he and James worked to undo the straps on the armored vest. 

"This is not a fucking democracy," Corrales said forcefully. "I appreciate it, boys, I do. But there is not going to be another mass funeral. You follow Agent Barton to the extraction point and get the fuck home with what we came here for."

Clint didn't look too happy himself, Natasha saw. 

"This is why both of us were smart enough not to become officers," James told Clint in Russian as he got the last strap undone and started working on all of the radios and grenades and other dangling bits that had to come off before the vest could be removed. "Officers get stuck doing shit things like leaving other people to risk their lives and then take the blame themselves when it goes badly."

James might have been talking theoretically, but Natasha didn't doubt he was thinking of Steve. 

"This is the cost of getting to keep Beetlejuice as a code name," James went on, detaching the last grenade and pulling off the vest, throwing to the side as if that would be far enough (it wouldn't and they knew it wouldn't). "Go."

Clint called him several names in Arabic, but then ordered everyone to get moving _now_. He shot Natasha a look, but she shook her head. This was more than a one-man job and if they were going to save Corrales, they would need the extra hands. Clint nodded and followed the rest of the men into the trees and toward safety. Natasha debated whether to put the goggles back on to stand guard, but she didn't think she could do that and still hold the flashlight for James. They were already violating light and noise discipline a thousand ways, so if anyone was going to come, they probably already would have and, she thought, she would be able to hear them. But either the rest of Lukin's men were dead or injured or they knew what they'd done and wanted to be far away when the bomb went off.

"What did you tell him?" Corrales asked and Natasha could hear the fear in his voice now, controlled still, but not as tightly in check without his men present. 

"I told him that being an officer sucked, but he got stuck doing it anyway," James replied as he gestured for Natasha to come closer with the flashlight. She did and they could see the pink splotches on Corrales's neck, on the collar of the tactical shirt and then on the skin itself. 

"It's enough to kill you, but not anyone else," James told Corrales bluntly as he pulled out his combat knife. "I'm going to cut it off; it'll hurt like a motherfucker and you'll bleed like a stuck pig, but you'll get to keep your head." 

Corrales nodded. "Do it."

"Not to sound like the voice of God, although it's not _completely_ inappropriate," Tony's voice began, emerging from the front pocket of James's vest where his phone -- his _turned off phone_ \-- was stored, and scaring the three of them into jumping. "But I gave you that EMP for a reason, Barnes, and it wasn't for threatening Dummy." 

James frowned as he pulled the phone out of the pocket, saw that it was audio only, and put it back in. "I thought you said that you weren't sure the stuff would stay inert with an EMP."

Natasha had skimmed most of the documentation on the nanite explosive; there had been only so many tests they could run with the tiny sample they had and they were still trying to recreate a larger supply to do more. Zapping it with an EMP hadn't been one of the tests they could do with the original sample, so Tony had had to guess as to the possible outcomes. 

"I'm not sure," Tony agreed. "But it can't hurt to try and it may buy you some time to flay Corrales alive. Key word being 'alive.'"

James put his hand over the spots on Corrales's neck and shirt. There was no light or heat, but Corrales shivered and then James took his hand away. 

"Don't forget the helmet and vest," Natasha reminded him and James turned and held his hand out. Again, she saw nothing, but James wiggled his fingers and dropped his arm, turning back to Corrales. 

James had Corrales sit on the ground and knelt behind him, Natasha standing behind the both of them so she could hold the flashlight. She had her gun in the other hand, just in case. Which didn't lessen the risk to Corrales; they had no idea what the nanites had been programmed to do nor did they know if there was anyone alive who had a detonator, which would have a range of more than a kilometer out here. There could be more than one and it could be coming with the reinforcements.

They were lucky that the collars of the tactical shirts were cotton blend and could be cut away easily with a combat knife. There was a dime-sized splotch on the kevlar part of the shirt, but James took out another knife and scraped it off, throwing the explosive-tainted knife with practiced ease into the darkness and Natasha couldn't even hear it hit the ground, it had landed so far away. 

"Get something to bite down on," James said as he pulled out a couple of field dressings. Skinning a living creature was bloody, messy work. 

Corrales leaned forward to where the items discarded from his vest were lying and picked out one of his own field dressings, which was still rolled up. He also took the laminated photo of his family, his wife and four children, kissed it, and held it in his hand as he bit down on the dressing. He cried out at the first cut and Natasha bit her lip in sympathy, forced to watch so that she could keep the flashlight in place. James worked as quickly as he could, trying not to dig too deeply, but the blood was pouring and it got slippery and hard to see what he was doing and he had to pour water on the area, which made it hurt worse. 

In Natasha's ear, Clint reported that the quinjets were ready and he was going to load everyone into one and the second would come down when they were ready. Natasha acknowledged, but didn't give a time estimate or how likely it was that it would be three of them.

"Everyone else is clear," she reported, since Corrales had lost his radio and James wasn't going to be paying attention to his. She wasn't sure Corrales heard her through the pain, but if he did, this would make it easier for him. 

James rinsed the area again once he was finished and Natasha could see a palm-sized irregular patch of raw flesh before it was covered over first with a giant waterproof adhesive bandage, which probably wouldn't stick because of the water and blood, and then the old-school wraparound pressure dressing, which had to go around Corrales's neck like a mummy wrap or a noose. Neither bandage did the whole job, but together they would work long enough to get Corrales to safety. James pulled him up to standing by the arm and they exchanged a look; Natasha couldn't see Corrales's face, but she saw James's and understood that it had been about a life saved. 

"Let's go," she exhorted as James bent down to collect Corrales's rifle and radio and other important items; grenades and protein bars could stay behind. They'd had to throw away his NVGs because the strap had been tarred by the explosive, so James had Corrales put his hand on his shoulder and follow along like a blind man with his head down so he didn't get smacked in the face with anything while Natasha brought up the rear. 

She radioed Clint that they were on the move and he said that the second quinjet would drop down in five and be waiting for them, but to hurry up because they could see three SUVs speeding toward the compound. 

"Reinforcements are on their way," Natasha warned. "Theirs, not ours."

They were in the thick of the woods when they heard an explosion behind them and Natasha had to turn away from the fireball visible even though the trees so it didn't white out the goggles.  
"Oh, God," Corrales muttered, stunned with the realization of what had nearly been. "That was my gear, wasn't it?"

"Stark," James said, not slowing down, "if you're still listening, that's a 'no' on the EMP as permanent deactivator."

The quinjet was waiting in the clearing, as promised, and James pulled out his flashlight to signal friendlies on approach, to which the response was a dropped ramp. The engines were spinning up for takeoff before it closed again and the pilot was radioing their status as they lurched into the air with less grace than usual but greater speed. 

Natasha confirmed with Clint that they were three and underway as James dug through the jet's first aid kit. "You want morphine?" he asked Corrales, holding up a syringe and vial. 

"Not unless you want to carry me all the way to Medical once we get to the Helicarrier," Corrales replied with a weak smile.In the cabin's light he was pale and looked wrecked for more reasons than that he'd just been skinned alive. "Shit knocks me out for hours." 

"Kind of the point," James replied wryly, but put it back and took out a cold pack, cracking it so that it would activate. "This should numb it a little."

The flight back to the 'Carrier was going to be about three hours because they were going to burn fuel all the way back; the other jet would take a little longer because it had more weight. Corrales lay down on one of the benches and positioned the cold pack so that he could lie on his back without needing to hold it; the adrenaline of getting a death sentence and then having it lifted, however painfully, was over and he was crashing, understandably. Natasha and James shared the other one, shoulders touching but leaning against the bulkhead instead of each other, and Natasha closed her eyes. 

"Hey, Barnes," Tony piped up from his phone again. "Someone wants to talk to you."

James sighed, but he was smiling as he did so. "Someone is a worrywart and also is not going on speakerphone."

Steve had had good reason to worry and James knew that, too, but Natasha thought that Corrales's peril had purged a lot of the lingering darkness that had shadowed James even after he'd had his showdown with Lukin. He had such a long history with Lukin, such an ugly one, and he wasn't ever going to put what Lukin had done to him and those he cared about behind him. But having to focus on Corrales, on _saving_ Corrales -- and their team -- instead of on wanting to kill Lukin, that had required more James Barnes than the Winter Soldier and that, she thought, made the difference. James would probably tell her otherwise, but this was what she chose to believe. 

"Buck?" 

"Speakerphone, Jesus Christ!" James yelled, pulling the phone out his pocket with hands that were still covered in Corrales's blood. He'd rinsed them off, but in the dark and cursorily and there was still red under his fingernails and in the creases of his knuckles. He was pushing the speaker button, but it was grayed out because Tony had commandeered the thing from a distance. "Stark, I am going to smash this thing into little pieces and buy an iPhone."

Across from them, Corrales had turned, eyes alert. Of course he'd recognized the voice, or at least he thought he had, especially in that context of just that one word. The situation was possibly salvageable, but it would mean lying to Corrales by commission now instead of by omission. 

"You think I can't take over an iPhone?" Tony asked happily. "Please, their code's child's play."

James made a frustrated noise and sat back. "Well, Captain Clandestine has successfully blown his cover, so you might as well say hello to everyone. Jesus, Steve, you are just never going to run out of ways to sneak out of safety, are you?" 

Corrales was staring, shock and delight on his face. Natasha leaned forward and she could see the pilot still had her cans on, so she probably hadn't heard a thing. Natasha had flown quinjets enough to know that all hell could be breaking loose in the rear and the pilot could still be oblivious. Loud conversation wasn't audible over the engines with the headphones on. 

"It's Corrales," Tony retorted. "If he was going to do a heel turn on us, it would have been long ago. We've certainly given him cause." 

Corrales laughed, mostly because it was true but also because Captain America wasn't dead.

"It's Corrales now," James shot back, not ready to give up, even if he'd given in. "It's gonna be someone else tomorrow. And I am not even going to stay in the room when Fury rips you a new one."

Fury was going to shit housebricks, Natasha agreed, but if he hadn't already figured out that Steve was chomping at the bit to make progress on the return to a normal life, well, it was about time he did. 

"Your righteous indignation would work a lot better if you didn't have such a track record of being an accomplice," Peggy said and James, realizing he was being ganged up on, handed the phone over to Natasha and crossed his arms as if to remove himself from the proceedings. But they were trapped in the rear of a jet for the next two and a half hours and there was nowhere to run especially if Tony wouldn't let them turn the phone off -- he could probably make it work without a battery, too. Besides, she knew he really didn't mind at all. 

"Mister Barnes is withdrawing from the field of combat," Natasha announced. "Tony, take the phone off speaker so people can have real conversations."

She handed it back to James, who talked to Steve and Peggy, judging by the side of the conversation she could hear. It wasn't a fully revelatory talk -- there were some answers Steve was going to have to pry out of James face-to-face and without anyone else able to hear -- but James did admit that he'd been close to not heeding his better angels. Then he got up and crossed over to Corrales, handing him the phone. Corrales did more listening than speaking, but he spent the entire time smiling. Natasha got up to take the phone from him when he started to rise himself, then seemed to think better of it. 

"You okay?" Steve asked her. 

"Yeah," she answered, meaning it. "It was a little more adventurous than planned, but, hey, we got what we came for and we left with everyone we arrived with and you aren't allowed to complain about those missions."

Which wasn't what Steve was asking and he knew she'd avoided the answer, but maybe that had been an answer on its own. 

"I'll see you guys when you get back."


	18. Epilogue

"You do realize that there are more than thirteen colonies for you to visit now, right?" 

Natasha looked up from her magazine to see Tony standing behind James and Steve as they pored over maps. 

"Yes, Tony," Steve replied dryly. "We were up all night reading about that newfangled thing called the Louisiana Purchase." 

The road trip had not yet been officially approved because Fury was still about a half-dozen levels beyond "really fucking pissed" (Clint's estimation, since he'd been the one who'd had to do all of the after-action reportage after Perm and thus he'd been the convenient target for Fury's anger about Steve's 'cavalier approach to his safety'). But it would be approved, either before or after the fact because Fury probably understood that Steve was going to go with or without permission and, short of throwing Steve in a hole about as deep as the one Aleksander Lukin was currently occupying, there was very little he could do about that. 

"When we first came up with the idea," James added, wide-eyed innocent look on his face, "the Grand Canyon was just a little divot. We've been told it's much bigger now." 

Tony, sensing that he was not going to get the best lines in this conversation, sniffed and retreated. Over to the living room area, where Natasha was reading about Marc Bolan and Peggy was typing out a scathing review of a book on Amazon. Peggy was not, as a rule, an internet assassin, but _Death Comes to Pemberley_ had apparently struck a sore nerve. 

He dropped down heavily on the other end of the couch that Natasha was curled up on with the posture and expression of 'please entertain me' that Natasha knew well and could only hope to wait out by ignoring. Pepper had left for California yesterday and was thus unavailable to intercede and Tony was always reluctant to bother Peggy because she was not shy about reminding him that she'd once seen him "scoop poo out of his diaper" if he was annoying her. Natasha couldn't imagine any other situation where she was considered the least dangerous option in the room, but these were the Avengers and their friends and thus normal rules did not apply. Which was why Tony was still watching her, hoping she'd look up so he could engage her. Natasha could wait him out, so long as he didn't escalate into poking at her feet. He'd been antsy since before Pepper left, so maybe it was something else, but she was prepared to accept simple cabin fever, for values of cabin that encapsulated one of the most exciting cities on Earth. This was Tony, after all. 

"Sir, Doctor Marquand on Line One," JARVIS announced. 

Tony didn't react for a long moment, then sighed and got up. "I'll take it in the workshop."

"He should go out to see Pepper," Steve said after Tony left. "They haven't had much time together this month and she's going to be out there for at least a week. He doesn't need to stay here and look after me when he wants to travel. It's driving him crazy."

"The bubble gum bomb is driving him crazy," James corrected, pulling out a map from the bottom of the heap. The idea of a road trip was something the two of them had talked about in the 1940's, a running fantasy they'd developed as they made their way across Europe. California, the Grand Canyon, New Orleans, other places that seemed exotic to two young men who'd never left New York City until they'd worn a uniform. Steve had been to almost all of these places before he'd gotten to Europe, but the USO tour schedule hadn't left him much time to sightsee. He'd had more time since he'd come out of the ice and made use of it, but the Grand Canyon would still be a novelty to both of them. "But he should still go to California. And bring Dummy with him."

Tony used to go out to California and spend time in either Malibu or Atherton just for the hell of it, but he hadn't gone out there except when necessary since Steve had moved back to New York. Pepper had been talking about spending at least part of the winter there this year -- she wasn't a fan of the cold except for the odd ski vacation -- and while it was still only fall, Natasha thought she'd get her wish. It would be one more way things were slowly inching their way back toward what things had been like Before. 

Although the biggest reason things would always be different was currently insisting that going through Kansas was the best route. 

"Have you ever been to Kansas?" Steve asked, exasperated. Or at least pretending to be. He was too excited for anyone to take his frustration with James's ideas seriously. 

"It's very boring," Clint said as he came in. He'd been at 44th Street doing yet more follow-up work to the Perm mission. All three of them -- four of them counting Corrales, whose neck was recovering well after surgery, although there would always be scarring -- had been closeted for days at a time to break that morning's work down, but Clint had to take point because of his status as mission commander. He was, unsurprisingly, the most vocal about getting Steve back on an active roster so that this could be his job again. "But I mostly only knew a very tiny patch of it. On the other hand, I know that patch _very well._ "

His cell at the Disciplinary Barracks in Leavenworth, a place he'd been remanded to because of her and a place he was only free from because of Steve. Just because they didn't keep score didn't mean that they forgot. 

"If you're going west, go north the way out and south the way back so you don't get snowed on -- or snowed in," Clint said more seriously as he dropped down on the couch where Tony had been. "But you're welcome to use my place if you are in the area." 

"There's a shop in Cheyenne that makes perfect scones," Peggy offered, still working on her review. "The blackcurrant ones are superb, but I think the plain ones are best."

"We are not going to Cheyenne for scones," James replied flatly. "I am perfectly happy to never see Wyoming again. There's no there there." 

"Says the guy who wants to go to Kansas," Steve retorted, taking the map out of James's hand. 

Tony came back about ten minutes later holding a bottle of Manhattan Special. For all that he'd teased the guys about it being bottled by Jesus's disciples, he'd become fond of it to the point that there were bottles being drunk that hadn't originated in Steve's fridge. 

"We should have our first batch of the bubble gum bomb within three weeks," he announced, giving Clint the stink-eye for taking his spot, then dropping down on the loveseat. "Marquand figured out what they did to the nanite sheathing to keep the suspension from gumming them up. That was the last piece of the puzzle." 

After Perm, there had been two main focuses of attention: Lukin and the HYDRA he had left behind. The latter problem was turning out to be both very easy and very hard. The easy part was that the Russian HYDRA was more or less not SHIELD's problem anymore. Lukin's HYDRA was turning out to have been a Tsardom and, as a result, had been headless since his capture. Which for Putin was nothing short of a lifesaver. The papers Natasha had brought back and the files she'd uploaded off of the computers painted a picture of an organization that had been surprisingly close to taking over the country, forcing another series of showdowns with China and then with the US, completely eroding Putin's power and then staging an organized opposition candidacy to take the presidency and prime minister's chair through legal means. Lukin, unlike Putin, had never intended to take either job, instead standing a series of puppets and proxies to effect his will without resorting to making a mockery of the occasionally arbitrary election process. HYDRA would remain a popular movement with a militant wing, focused on Russia with a longer-term plan of extending her borders not by invasion, but by example -- and some careful propaganda and assassination. But that was all in the past now. HYDRA still present and popular, especially in the Urals and points east, but without Lukin's leadership, they were lacking the cleverness and slipperiness that made them a threat as well as a presence. The Russia Desk was of the opinion that Putin would crush them eventually -- later rather than sooner, but he'd win in the end. 

The hard part was the bubble gum bomb (which had a more official-sounding name for paperwork, but nobody used it and "bubble gum bomb" cropped up plenty of times in documentation), which had remained an enigma. SHIELD scientists had had trouble recreating it in any quantities, so there was still no reliable book on how it worked or how it could be defeated, which had been Tony's frustration for the last couple of months. They also didn't know who had originally created it for Lukin's HYDRA, nor how much of it was still out there, let alone who had it. There had been nothing about it in Lukin's files, just some emails that had obviously been executive summaries written in layman's terms. The men most likely to have those answers were both supposedly on the plane that had killed Lukin and hadn't been found since. There was evidence that one of them might have actually been on the plane, which in turn remained a mystery largely unsolved. These would be questions asked of Lukin, of course, but nobody really expected answers. He wasn't like Schmidt, jealous of his power and legacy and willing to double-cross anyone who threatened either. He was like Putin, willing to play a long game and patient enough to wait out the threats to that.

Lukin was currently residing in a SHIELD black site near Gioa Tauro in Italy. The Italians would be apoplectic if they knew about it -- their courts had already charged CIA agents involved in extraordinary rendition -- but that part of Calabria was ruled completely by the 'Ndrangheta, whose dislike of HYDRA had hardened into Latverian-style intolerance after the events at Lamazia Terme. (James, the instigator of those events as the Winter Soldier, took his role with equanimity. Clint, who'd spent a month in the hospital because of those same events, did the same.) There was no way Rome would find out and even less chance that Lukin would get help. Meanwhile, the location had easy access for SHIELD interrogators, who thus far hadn't gotten much. There had been discussions about whether either Natasha or James or both should be included in the rotation of questioners; Natasha would do it if asked, although she was not chomping at the bit for a chance. James wanted nothing to do with Lukin and was privately afraid that he would be put in a position where he could not refuse to help. He wasn't sure if he could emerge from another confrontation intact. "I think he'd try to destroy me. I'm about the only thing he can still break." Natasha and Steve had both vowed to keep that from happening and Natasha did not think that the road trip was as much about Steve's continued confinement as he insisted it was. 

"Did Fury give you the Dangerous Toys talk yet?" Natasha asked Tony, tossing the magazine on the coffee table. "It was on the to-do list. I saw it." 

Tony beamed at her, the deeply satisfied smile of someone who got genuine pleasure out of ruining Nick Fury's day. "I got the abridged version," he confirmed. "And because it was not the Full Version or the Full Version with Appendices, there will be no conveniently placed pieces of ABC Hubba Bubba left anywhere on the Helicarrier command deck."

"ABC?" Natasha asked just as Steve and James both said "It's Hubba _Hubba_."

Tony threw his arms up and looked at Clint with exasperation, but Clint was too busy cracking up. "Do you ever feel like we need the universal translator like in _Farscape_? Just give them a little shot of nanites and suddenly they understand when we talk to them?"

"ABC is for 'already been chewed,'" Peggy explained, since Clint was still snickering and Tony was drowning his sorrows in coffee soda. "And Hubba _Bubba_ is a gum, not the phrase I used to get frosty over when it was aimed in my direction."

"I liked that phrase," James said with a smile of fond reminiscence. "I got good results with it." 

Both Steve and Peggy gave him looks of disbelief. James shrugged. "What can I say? It's all in the delivery." 

"Don't deliver it to me," Natasha told him, but she already knew she'd be hearing it at least once in bed. 

Dinner was upstairs, courtesy of Marcel, whose feud with Eric Ripert seemed to be over because there was a succulent tagine on the menu instead of the continued recreations and reimaginings of Le Bernardin's menu. ("I'm thinking we get him to pick a fight with Redzepi next," Tony had told Natasha early on in the squabble.) They discussed Steve and James's itinerary, including the relative necessity of Kansas, which Natasha could tell James was insisting upon entirely to be contrary.

"Remember you swore a blood oath to Pepper that you'd be back for Thanksgiving," Peggy reminded them when the list got too long. 

"I'm looking forward to this," James admitted as he and Natasha walked uptown to her apartment that night. "It's... not anything I thought I could have in my life. And that includes the part where I get to come back here to you."

He smiled at her and squeezed her hand, which he'd already been holding. 

"I might not be here when you get back," she teased. "I could be working." 

He shook his head, recognizing her avoidance for what it was. She was remarkably bad at saying the words and possibly even worse at hearing them. She'd never really wanted to -- never really needed to -- tell a friend or a lover how much they meant to her. Clint had somehow always been able to read her like a book, even when they'd been on opposite sides. Steve had taken the time to learn her language. James... even back when he'd been her first James, the light sneaking through the cracks in the Winter Soldier's armor, he had been able to speak from the heart. Thankfully for her, he also saw what was in hers clearly enough without her having to force the words to come. She tried to say by deed, which he accepted as a workable, if partial, solution. 

"I spent so long not having a life at all, not even being human," he went on as they deftly navigated Columbus Circle. "And then once I was human, I was a wreck of one. I'm still a wreck, but a functional one, I guess. And I've got everything I wanted anyway. I don't want to ruin it."

"You've fallen in with very stubborn people," she assured him. "And they are as grateful to have found you as you them." 

He stopped walking, smiled, and in the middle of Central Park West, with taxis speeding at them, pulled her in for a kiss. 

"I was talking about Steve," she said against his lips, but she couldn't keep the smile off her face. 

"The hell you were," he retorted, smiling back.

"Come on," she said, dragging him out of the street and on to the curb. "Let's go."


End file.
